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Full text of "Prose and verse, humorous, satirical, and sentimental"







TO 





m 




MOORE'S 
UNCOLLECTED WRITINGS 




/^ ~V~ITY^- 



PROSE AND VERSE 



HUMOROUS, SATIRICAL, AND SENTIMENTAL 



BY 



THOMAS MOORE 

WITH SUPPRESSED PASSAGES FROM THE 
MEMOIRS OF LORD BYRON 



CHIEFLY FROM THE AUTHOR'S MANUSCRIPT 
AND ALL HITHERTO INEDITED AND UNCOLLECTED 



antr 

BY 

RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD 



Bonbon 
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 

1878 

[A II rights reserved} 



LONDON : PRINTED BY 

EPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
AND PARLIAMENT STREET 



INTRODUCTION. 



A CONSIDERABLE portion of the volume here presented 
to the public is derived from manuscript sources. The 
Note-Books and Commonplace-Books of THOMAS MOORE, 
together with a large mass of Correspondence, and 
the original drafts and manuscripts of his principal 
writings, have been for some time in the possession 
of the present publishers, and were found on examina- 
tion to yield so much matter of permanent literary in- 
terest, that it was thought advisable to place it beyond 
the possibility of future loss before the dispersion of 
these Autographs into various hands and places. 

The beautiful dedication of his Juvenile Poems to 
his mother, and the curious prose fragment of Eomance 
entitled The Lamp of St. Agatha, are now first printed 
from an octavo manuscript volume in which Moore has 
transcribed a number of his early pieces. To these are 
added the five maiden efforts of his Muse, one of them 
addressed to his schoolmaster, Samuel Whyte, which 
were printed in a brief-lived Dublin magazine, the 
Anthologia Hibernica, in the years 1793 and 1794. 
These constituted Moore's first appearance in print, and 

304709 



vi INTRODUCTION. 

already won for him a considerable amount of local 
celebrity. 

In the second section of the volume we have disin- 
terred a number of Squibs and Political Satires, equal 
in pungency and piquancy to any of those already col- 
lected, and dropped by the author at the time not on 
the score of inferior merit, but for reasons of the hour 
which have long ceased to exist. These are derived 
from a small quarto scrap-book of newspaper cuttings, 
carefully kept by Moore himself. All the pieces here 
given are marked by him as his own, and have numerous 
manuscript corrections in his hand in the margin, which 
have of course been uniformly adopted and followed. 

Of the wonderful versatility of Moore's genius the third 
section of the volume, consisting of his contributions 
to the Edinburgh Review, never before collected, and 
ranging over a period of twenty years and over a curious 
variety of subjects, affords a striking proof. His early 
quarrel with Jeffrey led soon afterwards to a close 
intimacy and friendship between them. It was at 
Jeffrey's urgent request and reiterated solicitation that 
Moore was induced to send him an occasional article ; 
and though he always remained rather averse to this 
kind of work, the little he performed of it showed him 
to be not unworthy of an honourable place in the brilliant 
constellation of contributors which the Review num- 
bered during those years Sydney Smith, Brougham, 
Hallam, Macaulay, Carlyle, and Jeffrey himself. It 
was with difficulty that the late Dean Milman could be 
brought to believe Murray's assurance, even when rati- 
fied by Moore himself, that the latter was the writer of 



INTRODUCTION. vii 

the article on German Rationalism. 'No, no,' he 
exclaimed, ' I know Moore to be very multifarious, but 
I don't think he has yet got to German theology.' 

Nevertheless it was so, and it seemed as if there 
were no subject too abstruse or too recondite for Moore 
to illuminate it with the play of his wit and fancy. 

Another proof of Moore's versatility is the very 
amusing Comic Opera produced by him in 1811, en- 
titled M. P., or The Blue-Stocking. With the exception 
of a few of the songs he never reprinted it, however ; 
and as the piece is now among the rarissima of col- 
lectors, we decided to include it in the present volume. 

The unfinished prose story entitled The Chapter of 
the Blanket now appears in print for the first time. 
Its sunny brilliancy and gay play of humour, and the 
luxuriance of imagination displayed in it, make us 
regret its abrupt termination. The minute character 
of the calligraphy and the complicated interlineations 
and corrections in the two manuscript books containing 
the rough draft and second copy of this tale have 
made it extremely difficult to decipher ; but we have 
succeeded in mastering these difficulties, and have now 
the pleasure to present this delightful fragment to the 
reader in a legible shape. 

Not the least interesting section of the volume will 
be the final one containing a selection from Moore's 
original notes for his Life of Byron deciphered, also, 
with some difficulty from a rough manuscript book 
partly in pencil and partly in ink. The destruction 
of Byron's own memoirs, and the fact that much in 
these rough notes was eliminated, suppressed, or toned 



Yiii INTRODUCTION. 

down in the published Life, gives a peculiar value and 
importance to the paragraphs we have culled from a 
mass of memoranda, extracts from books, &c., in which 
they are embedded. They will, it is believed, aid in 
throwing some new light on the character and career of 
the singular and gifted being about whom there still 
lingers a nameless and mysterious interest unparalleled, 
perhaps, in literary history. 

E. H. S. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

JUVENILE PIECES: 

To ZELIA, ON HER CHARGING THE AUTHOR WITH WRITING 

TOO MUCH ON LOVE . . . . 3 

A PASTORAL BALLAD . . . . . . 4 

A PARAPHRASE OF ANACREON'S FIFTH ODE . . .5 

To SAMUEL WHYTE. . . . . . . 5 

To THE MEMORY OF FRANCIS PERRY . . .6 

THE LAMP OF ST. AGATHA. A FRAGMENT OF KOMANCE . "6 

.SATIKICAL AND HUMOKOUS POEMS: 

ODE TO SAINT PATRICK . . . . n 

THE Two VETERANS . . . . 12 

THE BISHOP AND MIGUEL. A EECENT CORRESPONDENCE . 14 

THE ANSWER . . . . . 15 

IRELAND AND LORD GREY. BY AN IRISHMAN . .16 
THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE. A TALE OF THE SANDWICH 

ISLES . . . . . . 17 

THE LOFTY LORDS. AN EASTERN LEGEND . . 20 

SONGS OF THE CHURCH . . . . . . 21 

ON THE LATE LORD . . . . .23 

THE EEFORM BIIX . . . . 23 



x CONTENTS. k 

PAGE 

INVITATION TO THE TOBIES. BY THE KEY. E. IRVING . 25 
POLICE EEPORTS. BREACH OF THE PEACE . 28 

SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW GENUS OF CHURCHMAN, CALLED 

THE PHELL-POT . . . . . .29 

CONTEIBUTIONS TO THE 'EDINBURGH KEVIEW 1814- 
1834: 

LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. [SEPTEMBER 1814] . . . 35 

THE FATHERS. [NOVEMBER 1814] . . . -55 

FRENCH NOVELS. [NOVEMBER 1820] . . 75 

FEENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. [JUNE 1826] . . .92 

ANNE BOLEYN. [MARCH 1827] . . . . . 117 

PRIVATE THEATRICALS. [OCTOBER 1827] . . . 145 

GERMAN KATIONALISM. [SEPTEMBER 1831] . . .177 

THE BOUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. [APRIL 1834] . . 204 


A LETTER TO THE ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN 221 

M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. A COMIC OPERA IN 

THREE ACTS 253 

THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: A FRAGMENT . 341 

LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT, &c. . . . . . 389 

NOTES FOR MOORE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON, . 407 

INDEX , . . . 441 



JUVENILE PIECES. 



[From a Manuscript Book, containing other pieces already pub- 
lished in Moore's Collected Works, written out for and dedicated to 
his mother, and from a scarce Dublin monthly magazine, the Antho- 
logia Sibernica, 1793-4, in which Moore's earliest effusions were 
printed.] 



FOB her who was the critic of my first infant productions 
I have transcribed the few little essays that follow. The 
smile of her approbation and the tear of her affection were 
the earliest rewards of my lisping numbers ; and, however 
the efforts of my maturer powers may aspire to the ap- 
plause of a less partial judge, still will the praises which 
she bestows, be dearer, far dearer to my mind than any ! 

The Critic praises from the head ; the Mother praises 
from the heart ! with one it is a tribute of the judgment ; 
with the other it is a gift from the soul ! 

THOMAS MOORE. 



TO ZELIA. 

ON HER CHARGING THE AUTHOR WITH WRITING TOO MUCH 
ON LOVE. 

[The following lines were the first poetic effusion of Thomas 
Moore which ever appeared in a printed form. They were written 
at his father's residence in Aungier Street, Dublin, in 1793, and 
published in the AntJwlogia Hibernica, 1 in October of that year. 
They not only possess considerable beauty, but are singularly pro- 
phetic of the chord which he struck with such delightful effect in 
after years.] 

'Tis true my Muse to love inclines, 

And wreaths of Cypria's myrtle twines ; 

Quits all aspiring lofty views 

And chaunts what Nature's gifts infuse. 

Timid to try the mountain's height, 

Beneath she strays, retired from sight ; 

Careless, culling amorous flowers, 

Or quaffing mirth in Bacchus' bowers. 

When first she raised her simplest lays 

In Cupid's never ceasing praise, 

The god a faithful promise gave 

That never should she feel love's stings, 

Never to burning passion be a slave, 

But feel the purer joy thy friendship brings. 

1 AntJwlogia, Hi bernica ; or, Monthly Collections of Science, 
Belles Lettres, and History, 4 vols. 8vo, January 1 793 to December 
1794. Dublin: printed for Richard Edward Mercierand Company, 
31, Anglesea Street. 

B 2 



JUVENILE PIECES. 



A PASTORAL BALLADE 

AH, Celia ! when wilt thou be kind ? 

When pity my tears and complaint ? 
To mercy, my fair ! be inclined, 

For mercy belongs to the saint. 

Oh ! dart not disdain from thine eye ! 

Propitiously smile on my love ! 
No more let me heave the sad sigh, 

But all cares from my bosom remove ! 

My gardens are crowded with flowers, 
My vines are all loaded with grapes ; 

Nature sports in my fountains and bowers, 
And assumes her most beautiful shapes. 

The shepherds admire my lays 

When I pipe they all flock to the song ; 
They deck me with laurels and bays, 

And list to me all the day long. 

But their laurels and praises are vain, 
They've no joy or delight for me now ; 

For Celia despises the strain, 

And that withers the wreath on my brow. 

Then adieu, ye gay shepherds and maids ! 

I'll hie to the woods and the groves ; 
There complain in the thicket's dark shades, 

And chaunt the sad tale of my loves I 

Antlwhgia Hilernica, October 1793, vol. ii. p. 299. 



JUVENILE PIECES. 



A PARAPHRASE OF ANACREON'S FIFTH ODE. 1 

LET'S, with the gaily-clustering vine, 
The rose, Love's blushing flower, entwine ! 
Fancy's hand our chaplets wreathing, 
Vernal sweets around us breathing, 
We'll madly drink, full goblets quaffing, 
At frighted Care securely laughing. 
Eose ! thou balmy-scented flower ! 
Eear'd by Spring's most fostering power , 
Thy dewy blossoms, opening bright, 
To gods themselves can give delight. 
Cypria's child, with roses crown'd, 
Trips with each Grace the mazy round. 
My temples bind ; I'll tune the lyre ; 
Love my rapturous notes shall tire ; 
Near Bacchus' grape-encircled shrine, 
While roses fresh my brows entwine, 
Led by the winged train of pleasures, 
I'll dance with nymphs to sportive measures. 



TO SAMUEL WHYTE* 

HAIL ! heaven-taught votary of the laurell'd Nine ! 

That in the groves of science strike their lyres : 
Thy strains, which breathe an harmony divine, 

Sage Reason guides, and wild-eyed Fancy fires. 

If e'er from Genius' torch one little spark 

Grlow'd in my soul, thy breath increased the flame ; 

Thy smiles beain'd sunshine on my wandering bark, 
That dared to try Castalia's dangerous stream. 

1 Anthologia Hibernica, February 1794, vol. iii. p. 137. 

2 Ibid, March 1794, vol. iii. p. 223. 



6 JUVENILE PIECES. 

Oh, then ! for thee, may many a joy-wing'd year, 
With not a stain, but still new charms appear ; 
Till, when at length thy mortal course is run, 
Thou sett'st, in cloudless glory, like a sinking sun ! 

January I, 1794. 

[Keprinted in the third edition of Samuel Whyte's Poem* on 
Various Subjects : Dublin, 1795, p. 272.] 



TO THE MEMORY OF FRANCIS PERRY. 1 

LIFE'S fading spark now gleams the last dim ray 
'Tis out th' unfetter'd spirit wings its flight 

In happier climes to drink eternal day 

And mix with kindred souls in realms of light ! 

Farewell, blest shade ! (if bliss the virtuous find) 

While, loosed from earth, thou seek'st a heavenly 
sphere, 

And 'gainst a wreath by seraph hands entwined, 
Why yet, for thee, thus flows the sorrowing tear ? 

Alas ! while memory can thy worth recall 
(For in thy mind each virtue claim'd a part), 

The dewy streams of grief, sincere, must fall ; 
The sigh must heave, untutor'd from the heart. 



THE LAMP OF ST. AGATHA. 

A FRAGMENT OF ROMANCE. 2 

' TILL the lamp in the cell of St. Agatha is extinguished, 
never shall the house of Malvezzi be in peace.' Such, says 

1 Antlwlogia Hibernica, June 1794, vol. iii. p. 461. 

2 From the MS. Book, containing a collection of his early pieces 
in verse, and the preceding Dedication to his mother. 



JUVENILE PIECES. 7 

the guide, were the prophetic words which the hermit 
of the mountain uttered before he died. He was a man 
of strange and mysterious habits, and many were the 
miracles which he performed in his cave ; so that the 
villagers (as we learn from the legendary tradition of 
those times), agreed that he was either the devil or a 
saint. When he lay upon his bed of rushes expiring, 
just before the last gleam of life was out, his eyes 
seemed to glow with more than mortal animation, and 
he pronaunced these words with a voice not of this 
world : ' Till the lamp in the cell of St. Agatha is ex- 
tinguished, never shall the house of Malvezzi be in 
peace.' ' Here,' says the guide, pointing to a heap of 
stones which rudely peeped forth from amidst a wilder- 
ness of weeds, 6 here are the ruins of the abbey, which 
adjoined the castle of Malvezzi, and here was the cell 
of St. Agatha, where the fatal lamp lay burning. 

' Near a century had elapsed from this prediction of 
the hermit of the mountain, and still the house of 
Malvezzi was convulsed by the most bloody dissensions. 
Father against son, and brother against brother, con- 
flicted with unrelenting ferocity, and murder was almost 
sated with its victims.' 

' But did they not remember the prophecy of the 
hermit ? ' said the youthful stranger, who appeared 
most interested in the tale, and to whom the guide 
particularly addressed himself. 

6 They did,' answered the guide, ' and still the lamp 
was unextinguished ; in vain was it exposed to the 
winds and the rain ; it would hiss in the shower, and 
quiver to the blast, but it would not go out ! No it 
burned brighter than ever ! Ill-fated family ! when were 
your sorrows to have an end ? 

' It was on the last evening of the year 1450, which 
completed a century from the period of the hermit's 



8 JUVENILE PIECES. 

death. Vespers were just concluded, and the abbey was 
still lighted up. The unfortunate young Malvezzi and 
his followers had been offering their thanks to the Deity, 
for he had suffered that day to pass over them without 
blood! The Marquis lingered last in the abbey, and 
was pacing pensively towards the gate, when a female 
figure rushed precipitately by him, and, gliding along 
the abbey, disappeared through the subterraneous 
wicket. He followed the phantom, and she entered the 
cell of St. Agatha. " How interestingly beautiful ! " 
said Malvezzi to himself, scarce repressing his astonish- 
ment, while he stole a glance at this unknown over a 
fragment of the wall of the cell. She stood over the 
lamp and raised her eyes to heaven ; they had a 
mingled expression of pity and exultation ; and while 
they softened with regret for the past, they seemed to 
brighten with a [cheerful] hope for the future ! Malvezzi 
gazed with breathless astonishment, when suddenly a 
peal of music floated [solemnly] along the aisles, as if 
the organ of the abbey was [had been] touched by some 
visionary hand, and it seemed the sweet language of 
heaven breathing peace to the wounded spirit of the 
unfortunate ! 

6 The female extinguished the lamp and vanished.' 
[' But how ? ' asked the young marquis. ' She . . . .' 
said the reverend guide.] 

1 That Moore attached some value to this clever youthful jeu 
$ esprit a very felicitous parody of the absurd Radcliffe romances 
of the period is evident from the fact that, while the body of the 
fragment is in the same juvenile hand as the poems, the corrections 
and additions here printed in brackets are in the mature hand of his 
manhood. That he should have thought it worth while to retouch 
this boyish trifle ever so slightly, must give it a certain value it 
would not otherwise possess ; and, indeed, the final added touch, 
the naive question of the stranger, and the guide's suppressed reply, 
which we may presume to have been, She ~bUw it out ! ' has a per- 
fectly alchemic effect upon the whole. ED. 



SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS 
POEMS. 



[Most of the following pieces are derived from a Scrap-book 
formerly in Moore's possession, containing newspaper cuttings of 
his political squibs, with his own manuscript corrections, as pre- 
pared for the collected edition of his Poetical Works, from which 
edition they appear to have been omitted, either by accident or for 
some temporary reasons which no longer exist.] 



II 



ODE TO SAINT PATRICK. 

(Written while half -tipsy over a solitary dinner, on the i;th 
of March, 1813.) 

THOUGH solus here I pick my bone, 
And drown my shamrock all alone, 

Yet ne'er the worse for that 
I'll fill and drink (to make amends) 
Both to and for all absent friends 

To honour thee, Saint Pat ! 

And, faith, to thee I'd rather quaff 
Than any saint on Heaven's staff 

That ever Pope gazetted ; 
Because to thee we Irish sinners, 
Who love to sprinkle well our dinners, 

Are very deep indebted. 

There's good St. Swithin had he given 
(Instead of water) wine from heaven, 

For forty days together, 
Then truly, for a moist set-in, 
Six weeks of wet would not have been 

Uncomfortable weather. 

But oh ! the liquor, gemm'd with beads, 
That in my glass this moment reads 
The Riot Act, so frisky ! 



12 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 

Sweet Pat, if e'er, in humorous vein, 
Thou takest it in thy head to rain, 
For Heaven's sake rain whiskey ! 

I wonder what in censure's way 
The devil's lawyer l had to say 

Against thee, Pat what had he ? 
The worst that Eldon's self could prose, 
(The devil's lawyer, he, God knows !) 

Would be to call thee ' Paddy.' 

But, let them call thee what they will, 
Through life I'll love thy worship still, 

And when my race is over, 
Let shamrocks crown my bed of sleep, 
Let whiskey-dew the shamrocks steep, 
And friends say round me, while they weep, 

4 Here lies a Pat, in clover ! ' 2 



THE TWO VETERANS. 

( Hectora quern laudas, pro te pugnare jubeto, 
Militia est operis altera digna tuis.' OVID. 

OH ! wine is the thing to make veterans tell 

Of their deeds and their triumphs and punch does as 

well-- 

As the Regent and Bliicher, that sober old pair, 
Fully proved t' other night, when they supp'd you 

know where, 

: A person called the devil's advocate, employed at the canoni- 
zation of saints to blacken the characters of those chosen for that 
honour. 

2 The shamrock is a species of clover. 



THE TWO VETERANS. 13 

And good-humouredly bragg'd of the feats they'd been 

doing 

O'er exquisite punch of my Yarmouth's own brewing. 
This difference there was in the modes of their strife, 
One had fought with the French t' other fought with 

his wife I 

' How I dress'd them ! ' said Bliicher, and fill'd up, 

sublime 
4 1, too,' says the Prince, ' have dress'd men in my 

time.' 

Bl. One morning at dawn 
Reg. Zounds, how early you fight ! 

I could never be ready (hiccups); my things are so 

tight ! 

BL I sent forward a few pioneers over night 
Reg. Ugly animals these are, in general, I hear 

(hiccups) 
The Queen, you must know, is my chief pioneer. 

Bl. The foe came to meet us 

Reg. . There I manage better, 

The foe would meet me, but I'm d d if I'll let her. 

BL Pell-mell was the word dash thro' thick and 

thro' thin 
Reg. Carlton House to a tittle ! how well we chime 

in! 
BL For the fate of all Europe, the fate of men's 

rights, 
We battled 

Reg. And I for the grand fete at White's ! 

BL Though the ways, deep and dirty, delay'd our 

design 
Reg. Never talk of the dirt of your ways think of 

mine ! 



14 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 

Bl. And the balls hissing round 

Reg. Oh ! those balls be my lot 

Where a good supper is, and the Princess is not. 
And for hissing why, 'faith ! I've so much every day 
That my name, I expect, in the true Eoyal way, 
Will descend to posterity, ' G-EORGE LE SIFFLE ! ' 1 

Bl. But we conquer'd, we conquer'd blest hour of 
my life ! 

Reg. And blest moment of mine, when I've con- 
quer'd my wife ! 

Here the dialogue falter'd ; he still strove to speak ; 
But strong was the punch, and the Regent's head 

weak ; 
And the Marshal cried ' Charge ! ' and the bumpers 

went round, 

Till the fat toilet-veteran sunk on the ground ; 
And old Bliicher triumphantly crow'd from his seat 
To see one worthy potentate more at his feet. 



THE BISHOP AND MIGUEL. 

A RECENT CORRESPONDENCE. 

WHO, false alike in war and peace, 
Hath nothing done but cheat and fleece, 
His brother bilk, and rob his niece ? 

My Miguel. 

Who, on his way to all this evil, 
In London look'd so sweet and civil, 
In Lisbon pitch'd us to the devil ? 

My Miguel. 

1 Like Louis la Men-aime, Louis le desire, $c. 



THE BISHOP AND MIGUEL. 

Whose tyrant deeds e'en roused the spleen 

Of tyrant-loving Aberdeen 

To call thee names he didn't mean, 

My Miguel ? 

Who rules his realm with guns and drums, 
And sends poor devils to martyrdoms, 
With ' little angels ' l round their thumbs ? 

My Miguel. 

Yet, ah ! atrocious as thou art, 

So well thou play'st the monarch's part, 

Thou'rt dear unto a bishop's heart, 

My Miguel. 

For thine the sceptre and the purse, 
And wert thou even ten times worse, 
To us 'twould matter not a curse, 

My Miguel. 

THE ANSWER. 

As welcome as a richer see 
Would prove to Exeter, or thee, 
Thy kindly greeting comes to me, 

My bishop. 

'Tis sweet to think, whoever draws 
His sword against the people's cause, 
Is sure, at least, of thy applause, 

My bishop. 

And whether 'tis old Nick or Nero, 
With morals, like my own, at zero, 
Thou'lt hail him as the Church's hero, 

My bishop. 

1 Thumb-screws, so called. See Lord Morpeth's speech. 



16 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 

The world may hold thy ' Nolo ' light, 
But where men come to ask their right, 
Thy ' Nolo ' may be trusted quite, 

My bishop. 

Love to the bench should you and they 
Chance to be ousted, some fine day, 
Pop over here to Lisbon, pray, 

My bishop. 

For though 'twill doubtless dull appeal- 
Without your thousands five per year, 
You'll meet some kindred spirits here, 

My bishop. 



IRELAND AND LORD GREY. 

BY AN IRISHMAN. 

Written July 1834. 

ALAS ! fated country, of friends and of foes 

Alike doom'd the bane and the victim to be ; 
Even GTEEY'S long illustrious life, at its close, 
Is cross'd by the shadow thy destiny throws, 
For his last act was binding a fetter on thee. 

Oh mournful result of long ages of wrong, 
That he, even he, ever glorious before, 

Should be turn'd from his bright course, thy breakers 
among, 

Forget the true star he had steer'd by so long, 

And leave thus a wreck of high fame on thy shore ! 

Yet no, mighty spirit, though deep the heart mourns 
At this one passing shade o'er a life full of light, 



THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE. 17 

Even this fades forgotten, when memory turns 
To the long track of patriot glory which burns 

Half a century through, marking grandly his flight. 

Nor shall Europe when starting, with England for guide, 

In that march of Keform he hath foremost led on, 
E'er forget, when a new race shall rise, in its pride, 
On the ruins of wrong, that her thrall was untied 
By the noblest and best of the race who are gone ; 

By one who will stand, in posterity's sight, 

When the mists of the moment have fled as a dream, 
Like some castle of chivalry, throned on a height, 
Where the day, going off, leaves the last of its light, 
Where the morn, coming on, brings its earliest beam. 



THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE. 

A TALE OP THE SANDWICH ISLES. 

I'LL tell you a tale of the southern seas, 

You may laugh or cry at it just as you please. 

Scant was the growth of the bread-fruit tree 

On the beautiful Isle of Owhyhee, 

While, gift of heaven ! it richly grew 

O'er the sunny fields of Woahoo ; 

And it seem'd as Nature had placed these isles 

In the reach of each other's verdant smiles, 

That whate'er was wanting on either shore 

From the other might swift be wafted o'er ; 

The Woahooan nymphs array'd 

In trinkets by Owhyheeans made ; 

While Owhyhee well fed would be 

By Woahoo's sweet bread-fruit tree. 



1 8 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 

But, alas ! even happy isles like these 
Have a people upon them call'd Grandees, 
And where there are lords, I need not say 
Things will go on in a lordly way. 

Heard you that cry, whose withering sound 
Saddens the sunny prospect round ? 
From a million of voices it rings on high, 
6 We starve, we starve ! ' their fearful cry. 
Know you what, 'midst such fertile scenes, 
That awful voice of famine means ? 
Oh, list to me in Owhyhee 
Were lords and squires of high degree, 
Who in bread-fruit held large property, 
And, of all afflictions, ills, and vices, 
Thought none so dreadful as low prices. 
Wherefore they held it just and meet 
That the world should not too cheaply eat ; 
Nay, deem'd it radical insolence 
To wish to dine at a small expense, 
And swore, for sake of themselves and heirs, 
That, happen what might with other wares, 
No bread should be less dear than theirs. 

Tn vain the Owhyheeans said, 
' My Lords, we much respect your bread, 
But, with all due reverence for your Graces, 
Would rather have cheaper from other places.' 
In vain from the Woahooan shore, 
Barks, fill'd with bread-fruit, wing'd them o'er ;- 
'Twas vulgarly cheap, and tax'd must be 
Before 'twas fit for good company; 
Nor must the poor devils swallow a bit, 
Unless they swallow a tax with it. 



THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE. 19 

And what said the lords of Owhyhee, 
And the Owhyheean Squirearchy, 
In defence of their joint gentility ? 
Why, they said that they and their sires before 'em 
Had shone in the senate, camp, and quorum,- 
Had all been rich had managed to get, 
As became their station, deep in debt ; 
And thought it hard that men of reading, 
Who had cost, themselves, so much in breeding, 
Should now fall victims to cheap feeding 
Shorn of their beams of wealth and state 
To help low fellows to masticate ! 
'How little,' said they, 'the thoughtless poor 
Can know what the suffering rich endure, 
In bringing up dozens of small Grandees 
In paying off horrible mortgagees 
To say nothing of assignees, lessees, 
And an endless quantity more of these 
Une&sy things that end in ees. 
And, though (as honest Figaro says) 
If a gentleman owes, and never pays, 1 
'Tis just the same, be it great or small, 
As if he, in fact, owed nothing at all, 
Yet, somehow, unless one sometimes pays, 
Lenders are bashful, nowadays.' 

In short, if the bread tax once was gone, 
These lords and gentlemen ' couldn't get on ; ' 
And they even hinted, awfully, 
That if e'er, in the Isle of Owhyhee, 
Bread-pudding in price should humbled be, 
All was o'er with the aristocracy ; 

1 ' Quand on doit, et qu'on ne paye pas, c'est comme si on ne 
devoit rien.' 

c 2 



20 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 

One penny saved by clods who dine, 
Being sure to bring our nobles to nine ! l 

Meanwhile, that cry, that dreadful cry, 
' We starve, we starve,' rose loud and high, 
Till what was the upshot all shall see 
In the Second Canto of Owhyhee. 



THE LOFTY LORDS. 

AN EASTERN LEGEND. 

THERE'S an isle far off, under India's skies, 

Where the mariner oft at eve descries, 

When the heavens are calm and the winds asleep, 

Dark ruins, beneath the shining deep, 

Of towers up-built, as the tale is told, 

By lords of that isle, in days of old, 

Who, aping the Babel builder's skill, 

Heap'd stone on stone, aspiring still 

Till, lodged aloft, on their piles of pride, 

Earth, sea, and heaven these lords defied. 

But little they knew, when towering so, 
What a mighty power was at work below. 
For, on land usurp'd from the giant sea, 
They had built their halls of dignity ; 
Nor dreamt, while high in air they slept, 
Of the world of waters that round them swept, 
And the working waves that, day by day, 
Were mining their massive mounds away. 

In vain did the wise, whose prescient ear 
The coming crash in the breeze could hear, 
Forewarn these lords of the lofty towers 

1 According to the old arithmetical process of 'bringing nobles 
to ninepence.' 



THE LOFTY LORDS. 21 

How vast were the deep's encroaching powers, 

How mighty the waves of that angry sea, 

Coming like crested chivalry. 

'Twas all in vain unmoved they stood, 

Each, like Canute, to the swelling flood, 

Saying, ' Thou comest not to this spot ; ' 

But the swelling waters heard them not. 

In the light of heaven one instant shone 

Both lords and towers, and, the next, were gone ! 

Dark over them swept the mighty main, 

And the giant sea had his own again. 

SONGS OF THE CHURCH. 

No. II. 1 

' I HAVE found out a cure for Dissent ; 2 
I have found, when all other means fail, 

To soothe a Non-Con.'s discontent, 
The best way's to put him in jail.' 

Even so the Welsh parson 3 averr'd, 

When John James into prison he flung ; 

And I loved the Church more when I heard 
Such tenderness fall from his tongue. 4 

By the foes of the Church 'tis asserted 

She'll ne'er of her ground give an inch up ; 

Why 'twas but last month she converted 
A rectory into a gin-shop. 

1 Moore reprinted No. 1 only in his Collected Poetical Works. 
ED. 

' I have found out a gift for my fair, 
I have found,' &c. &c. Shenstone. 

8 The parish clergyman of Llanelly, who lately caused a dissenter 
to be imprisoned for non-attendance at church. 

' And I loved her the more, when I heard 
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.' 



22 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 

Just call at All-Hallows, some day, 

And you'll find, to her very great merit, 

Though given to the flesh, as some say, 
She now and then deals in the spirit. 1 

Talk of martyrs if ridicule flay men, 

And saints be not deucedly tough, 
We've among us both churchmen and laymen, 

Who've, Grod knows, been martyr'd enough. 

There's O'Sullivan, Marsyas of mummers, 

There's Poynder, who'd die, branch and root, 

For the rights of the Protestant drummers 
Of the eighth Native Eegiment of Foot ! 2 

But I care not what antics men play ; 

Ev'n Dissenters their course might pursue, 
If it weren't that, when souls go astray, 

Fees and perquisites go astray too. 

And a bargain I'd willingly strike, 

Which seems likely both parties to please, 

Let them hold what doctrines they like, 
If they'll only let us hold the fees. 

They had best, too, look sharp as, perhaps, 
If they vapour much more in this strain, 

We shall force them to put on square caps, 3 
And read c Bel and the Dragon ' 4 again ! 

1 The glebe or rectory-house of All-Hallows, lately licensed to 
sell gin and other spirituous liquors <to be drunk on the premises.' 

2 See a late letter of Mr. Poynder's, pleading in favour of liberty 
of conscience for certain Christian drummers of the 8th (or I9th) 
native regiment in India. 

8 One of the great objects of dissent soon after the Eef ormation. 
When Beza was asked why he would not wear a square cap,' he 
answered, 'Because his head was not square.' 

* The Convocation in 1661 prescribed the reading of 'Bel and 
the Dragon,' much to the horror of the ministers. 



THE REFORM BILL. 23 



ON THE LATE LORD . 

THIS lord, when young, had some pretence 

To honour, public worth, and sense ; 

But, just at forty trying age, 

When, howsoever pure or sage, 

Both male and female, flesh and blood, 

Grow rather tired of being good 

A riband which hung out, as prize 

For the first turn-coat, caught his eyes ; 

And though as neat he, for a shilling or 

Two, might have of any milliner 

He took it, and aloft was swung, 

One of those malefactors, hung 

In ribands, scarlet, green, or blue, 

For certain awkward things they do, 

Leaving the world in scorn to laugh at a 

Man who damn'd his fame for c taffeta.' 



THE REFORM ILL. 

OF all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass 

By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches, 

The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas, 

It has caused between Wetherall's waistcoat and 
breeches." 

Some symptoms of this Anti-Union propensity 
Had oft broken out in that quarter before ; 

But the breach, since the Bill, has attain'd such immen- 
sity, 
Daniel himself could have scarce wish'd it more. 



24 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 

Oh haste to repair it, ye friends of good order, 
Ye Atwoods and Wynns, ere the moment is past ; 

Who can doubt that we tread upon anarchy's border, 
When the ties that should hold men are loosening so 
fast? 

Make Wetherall yield to ' some sort of Reform,' 

(As we all must, (rod help us, with very wry faces), 

And loud as he likes let him bluster and storm 
About Corporate Rights, so he'll only wear braces. 

Or, if those he has now have been long in possession, 
And, like his own borough, the worse for the wear, 

Advise him, at least, as a prudent concession 
To Intellect's progress, to buy a new pair. 

Oh who that e'er saw him, when vocal he stands, 

With a look something midway 'twixt Filch's and 
Lockifs, 

While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands, 
Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets ; 

Who that ever has listen'd, through groan and through 
cough, 

To the speeches inspired by this music of pence, 
But must grieve that there's anything like falling off, 

In that great nether source of his wit and his sense ? 

Who that knows how he look'd when, with grace 

debonair, 

He began first to court, rather late in 'the season, 
Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair 

Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Rea- 
son ; * 

1 It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself 
boasted, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair 
which this allegorical lady had occupied. 



INVITATION TO THE TORIES. 25. 

That Groddess, whose borough-like virtue attracted 
All mongers in both wares to proffer their love ; 

Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted, 
As Wetherall's rants, ever since, go to prove ; l 

Who, in short, would not grieve, if a man of his graces 
Should go on rejecting, unwarn'd by the past, 

The moderate Keform of a pair of new braces, 
Till, some day, he'll all fall to pieces, at last ? 



INVITATION TO THE TORIES. 

BY THE BEV. E. IRVING. 

HITHER turn you, hapless Tories, 
Now's your time as Saints to shine 

Since you've lost all earthly glories, 
Now's your time to share in mine. 

Though you've set your worldly trap ill 
Though disgrace is all you've caught ; 

Come, and in St. Irving's Chapel 
Be St. Stephen's all forgot. 

I've, like you, been put to rout, 
Laugh'd at much by men of sin ; 

Me they've from my place shut out, 
You, alas, they won't let in. 



1 Lucan's description of the effects of the tripod on the appear- 
ance and voice of the sitter, shows that the symptoms are, at least,, 
very similar : 

Spumea tune primum rabies vesana per ora 

Effluit .... 

.... tune moestus vastis ululatus in antris. 



26 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 

Arm we, then, in joint defence, 

Bring your foetus Cabinet, 
Til find lungs and impudence, 

So we both may prosper yet. 

Hard as 'tis for pride to gulp it, 

Placing rivals by our sides, 
K d n shall have half my pulpit, 

And at Cant work double tides. 

Though my primo Tongue * hath flown, 
Lark'd to Yorkshire on a journey, 

Wetherall, at Tongues Unknown, 

Out and out, will beat th' Attorney ; 

Linsey-woolsey, hung with tassels, 
French, and Latin, and wha,t not ; 

If we can't have Molly Cassils, 2 
Wetherel shall be Polyglot. 

Or, if Harrowby prefer 

Miracle more curious yet, 
We shall make some Waverer 

Sing the Double-Tongue duet. 

And that all things, good and evil, 
May advance our work of grace, 

Whensoe'er we name the Devil, 
C d shall show his face. 

Oh,the blest Millennium we 

Then shall preach to Tory ears ! 
Days, when all the world will be 
Mad in love with Kings and Peers ; 

1 One of the false brethren, a Yorkshire attorney, who betrayed 
the mystery of the Tongues. 

2 Miss Cassils, one of the chief Tongue-performers. 



INVITATION TO THE TORIES. 27 

When, no more inclined to shrink 
From our plunderers, as at present, 

Loyal souls, we all shall think 
Being robb'd extremely pleasant ; 

And when, tame as Eldon wants, 

Or as now the Duke would count them, 

Nations shall, like elephants, 

Kneel to let their drivers mount them. 

Haste, then, hither, haste, ye Tories, 
Bring, too, each his Sposa dear ; 

Pleased they'll find we've Almack's glories 
Acted, in a small way, here. 

Once a week, th' eleves of Owen, 

After his long opiate drams, 
To the fiddle's sound set going, 

Hop in parallelograms. 1 

Though his audience be but middling, 
Like my own, much given to snore, 

Yet, 'twixt prosing, canting, fiddling, 
What can Tory's wife wish more ? 

'Tis, n short, the sole asylum 
Where poor Ultras now can hope 

To disgrace to reconcile 'em, 
Without aid of knife or rope ; 

Where Newcastle's weary head 
Safe may rest from sense or riot, 

And Bucky may be brought to bed 
Of his little Mouse, in quiet. 

1 The evening lectures and dances of Mr. Owen are held under 
the same roof with the rev. gentleman's present conventicle. 



28 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
POLICE REPORTS. 

BEEACH OF THE PEACE. 

Two fierce-looking foreigners, charged with intending 
Some serious infraction of peace, and of skull, 

Which might take Law and Surgery some time in 

mending, 
Were had up to-day before old Justice Bull. 

One gave his name ' Jonathan,' t' other, < Mounseer,' 
Both, speechers and writers, as who now is not ? 

Both, taught at the very same Free-School, we hear, 
Though Mounseer has, of late, all his learning 
forgot. 

The dispute turn'd on moneys to Jonathan due, 

A demand which Mounseer thought it high-bred to 
quash ; 

And while one took to dunning, as tradesmen will do, 
T' other talk'd of his ( honour/ but still kept the cash. 

Things grew at length serious Mounseer still de- 

murr'd, 

While Jonathan, angry, presumed ev'n to say 
That ' Mister was squiggling,' (his own very word) 
6 And would slink from the debt, like an eel, slick 
away ! ' 

This drew down from t' other on Jonathan's head 
A loud voluble volley of 4 SacreJ ' MorbleuJ 

' PesteJ ' DiableJ and other words not so well-bred, 
Mix'd with ' honour ' and so forth but still not a, 
sou. 



NEW GENUS OF CHURCHMAN. 29 

In short, he seem'd readier to fight than to pay, 

Which 'Nathan observing said, ' Choose which you 

will; 
I guess I've a 'nation 'cute knack, either way, 

And can draw on you just which you like sword or 
bill.' 

As 'twas fear'd two such heroes might do something 

rash. 
Both were brought before Bull (of the Fleet-street 

Police), 

And Mounseer, who had counted on keeping the cash, 
Now found himself bound to keep only the peace. 

As they parted, shrewd Jonathan spoke thus his mind, 

' As I calculate, Mister, your gumption's but dull, 
If you wish to know how I treat Nobs who're inclined 
, To take liberties with me, or from me, ask Bull.' 



SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW GENUS OF CHURCH- 
MAN, CALLED THE PHILL-POT. 

[To the Editor of the MORNING CHRONICLE. 

Sir, As I perceive that the late achievements of a certain 
bustling bishop have already been noticed as they deserve by some 
of your poetical correspondents, I should have hesitated in trou- 
bling you with the following trifle had I not recollected that, in 
the good task of exposing such priestly mountebankism, * every 
little helps ; ' and that, as Luther truly says, ' Religio maximS peri- 
clitatur inter Keverendissimos.' Yours, &c.] 

As that old married pair, Mother Church and the State, 
Have giv'n birth to a new sort of offspring, of late, 
Called by savans the Phill-Pot a race which unite 
All that's wrong in both parents with none of the right ; 



30 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 

And as no one can doubt such a nicely mix'd breed 
Will be sure both with sinners and saints to succeed, 
We shall soon have the land blackening over with 

swarms 

Of newly-spawn'd Phill-Pots, in all sorts of forms ; 
Not a spot of our isle but will soon be o'errun with 'em, 
' Lordships ' and ' Graces ' each black mother's-son of 



This being the case, and a breed now so curious 
Being likely, if multiplied thus, to grow spurious, 
Some test is much wanted and that, too, no slight 

one 

To tell if a Phill-Pot's the wrong breed, or right one ; 
And, anxious from all such impostures to screen us, 
The present Eight Eeverend head of the genus 
Has drawn up some Questions, so framed as to show 
If one's Phill-Pot is really a Phill-Pot, or no ; 
Nor could Irving himself with his famed Polyglottism, 
Evade, it is thought, this strict Test of Phill-Pottism. 

We subjoin, just to show how they baffle evasion, 
The Questions and Answers drawn up for th' occasion. 

1. What's the Church ? 

A large money-establishment, given 
To pamper up priests, for the honour of heaven ; 
And inspiring a zeal in each reverend man 
Just proportion'd to what he gets by it per ann. 

2. Name the Orders. 

First, Curates, the lowest in larder ; 
Then Eectors improved much in fat and in ardour ; 
And so on through Bishops the fervour increases, 
Extending its glow ev'n to nephews and nieces ; 



NEW GENUS OF CHURCHMAN. 31 

Till waxing yet warmer, as upward its motion, 

In Primates it bursts with a blaze of devotion 

Of which hungry curates have not the least notion ! 

3. Do you hold that all Christians who differ from you 
Are idolaters, heathens, and so forth ? I do. 

4. Are you ready, with St. Athanasius, 1 to damn 
Everyman, woman, child of the Greek Church ? I am. 

5. Can you prove, if required, that the great Irish Dan 
Is the 6 lion's whelp ' mention'd Deut. 33 ? 2 I can. 

6. Through the whole Book of Numbers I'll thank you 

to run, 
And say which the parson loves best ? Number One. 

So far we've the youth in Theology tried : 

We shall now see how well he's with Ethics supplied. 

1. What's your pretext for now taking orders? Devo- 

tion. 

2. And what's your sole object henceforward? Pro- 

motion. 

3. Do you think it much matters, when good things are 

got, 
By what methods we get them ? No, certainly not. 

4. Have you any slight twinge of those scruples we call 
' Self-denial,' < humility,' ' shame ? 'Not at all. 

That will do. 

Here th' Examiner closes his task ; 
A more promising pupil no bishop need ask : 
And the Church gladly welcomes to feed on her clover 
A youth who has proved himself Phill-Pott all over. 

1 See a Defence of the Athanasian Creed in a letter addressed 
to Mr. Canning by the Kev. Henry Philpotts. 

2 'And of Dan he said, Dan is a lion's whelp.' Deut. xxxiii. 22. 



CONTRIBUTIONS 



TO THE 



EDINBURGH REVIEW 

18141834. 



LORD THURLOW S POEMS:- 

[SEPTEMBER 1814.] 

OUR modern heroes, poetical as well as military, are en- 
dowed with a rapidity of motion and achievement which 
keeps gazettes and reviews continually on the alert. 
Indeed, so difficult do we critics find it to keep pace 
with the ' celeritas incredibilis ' of some of our literary 
Caesars, that we think it would not be amiss if each of 
these poetical chieftains had a Eeviewer appointed ex- 
pressly, aupres de so, personne, to give the earliest 
intelligence of his movements, and do justice to his 
multifarious enterprises. 

The Poems of Lord Thurlow whose prowess in this 

1 Poems on Several Occasions. By Edward, Lord Thurlow. 
Second Edition. 8vo. pp. 349. London, 1813. 

Moonlight, a Poem, with several Copies of Verses. By Edward, 
Lord Thurlow. 4to. pp. 75. London, 1814. 

TJie Doge's Daughter, a Poem ; with several Translations from 
Anacreon and Horace. By Edward, Lord Thurlow. 8vo. pp. 66. 
London, 1814. 

Ariadne : A Poem in Three Parts. By Edward, Lord Thurlow. 
8vo. pp. 58. London, 1814. 

[Jeffrey writes to Moore, * Edinburgh, September 14, 1814 : Your 
castigation of Lord T. is admirable, though far more merciful than 
I had expected, as are also your incartades on a certain great per- 
sonage. I suspect your heart is softer than you know of, and you 
look upon that as extreme severity which to harder-fibred men is 
mere tickling. However, nothing can be more entertaining, ' or 
more cleverly written ; and, if your taste for reviewing keep any 
proportion to your genius for it, I shall have many such packets 
from you.' Memoir, Journals, and Correspondence of Moore, ii. 40.] 

D 2 



36 LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 

way is most alarmingly proved by the list prefixed to 
this article come graced and recommended to notice 
by two or three very imposing considerations. In the 
first place, the rank of the writer is not without its pre- 
possessing influence ; 6 a saint in crape is twice a saint 
in lawn : ' and we could name but one noble Bard, 
among either the living or the dead, whose laurels are 
sufficiently abundant to keep the coronet totally out of 
sight. Lord Thurlow himself seems fully aware of this 
advantage ; and we are not quite sure that he did not 
mean a sly allusion to it, in the following motto from 
Shakespeare prefixed to one of these volumes 

And then my state 

(Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate. 

In the next place, his Lordship is evidently an enthusiast 
in his art, and loves the Muse witK a warmth which 
makes us regret that the passion is not mutual. Indeed 
we doubt whether the shrine of Apollo ever boasted a more 
ardent worshipper ; and if, unluckily, he but seldom 
feels the approaches of the god, it is not for want of in- 
vocations many and importunate. At times he even 
contrives, by the mere force of devotion, to work him- 
self up into a sort of mock inspiration, like that of the 
young priestess Phemonoe in Lucan ; l but, like her 
too, we fear he will fail in passing off his spurious ec- 
stasies upon any one at all acquainted with the true 
symptoms of divine afflation. 

Another peculiarity by which this noble author 
deceives us into a momentary feeling of interest about 
his writings, is that air of antiquity, which his study of 

i Deum simulans, sub pectore ficta quieto 

Verba refert, nullo confusse murmure vocis 
Instinctam sacro mentem testata furore. 

PJuirsal. v. 148. 



LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 37 

our earlier writers enables him to throw not only over 
his verse but his prose. This charm, however, is of short 
duration. A mimicry of the diction of those mighty 
elders ; a resemblance, which keeps carefully wide of 
their beauties, and is laboriously faithful to their defects 
alone ; the mere mouldering form of their phraseology, 
without any of that life-blood of fancy which played 
through it is an imposture that soon wearies, and, if 
his Lordship does not take especial care, will, at last, dis- 
gust. He must not be surprised, if some unlucky critic 
should fall into the tasteless error of Martinus Scrible- 
rus's maid, and, in scouring off the rust from the pre- 
tended antique shield, discover but a very indifferent 
modern sconce underneath it. 

The first poem, of any length, that occurs, and perhaps 
one of the best that Lord Thurlow has written, is 6 Her- 
milda in Palestine.' We are assured, indeed, by no 
less an authority than Dr. Busby, that the Hermilda 
6 has given much pleasure to the lovers of fine poetry.' l 

It would be scarcely fair, however, to animadvert 
upon this poem in its present imperfect state. We have 
little more than the opening of it ; and the noble author 
has managed, in the course of a few hundred lines, to 
get half-a-dozen persons into scrapes and situations, from 
which twice as many thousand would not extricate 
them safely or creditably. At present, therefore, we 
shall refrain from touching this very tangled web. But 
should Lord Thurlow at any time complete his design ; 
should he ever succeed in bringing back these stray heroes 
and heroines, and restoring them to their disconsolate 
friends and relations, we promise, in our critical capacity, 
to pay all due attention to his labours. At the same 
time, we submit, for his soberest consideration, whether 
a King of Ithaca, who thus traces his pedigree 
1 Preface to his Translation of Lucretius. 



38 LO1W THURLOW'S POEMS. 

Ye kings, and heroes, of whose race I am, 
Deducing from high Jove my sacred birth, 

And he indeed from ancient Saturn came, 
That was the first great ruler of the Earth. 

Or a King of Pergamus addicted to the following 
pastimes : 

For in his tender years he wont to wring 
The speckled serpents, and compel to die ; 
And after in the forests he would tear 
The bloody jaws of libbard and of bear. 

Or finally a fair Amazon, who talks in this homespun 
style : 

This wretched man, I sleeping in the wood, 
Thought well to rob me, maugre all his fear ; 
But found at last, and to his bitter cost, 
He reckon'd up his bill without his host. 

We submit, we say, whether such personages as these 
deserve that either he or we should be doomed to take 
any further trouble about them. 

We come next to ' Verses in all humility dedicated 
to his Eoyal Highness the Prince Eegent.' These are 
excellent. The rising sun is, of course, the stock simile 
upon such occasions, and his lordship thus manages his 
two great luminaries. 

As when the burning Majesty of day 
The golden-hoofed steeds doth speed away 
To reach the summit of the Eastern hill ; 
(And sweet expectance all the world doth fill) ; 

With all his gorgeous company of clouds 
(Wherein sometimes his awful face he shrouds) 
Of amber and of gold, he marcheth on, 
And the pure angels sing before his throne ; 

So you, great Sir, <fec. &c. 



LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 39 

Now, really, if Lord Thurlow were not one of the 
last persons to be suspected of any wilful deviation into 
wit and humour if we did not know how he scorns to 
descend from upper air into the low region of those 
will-o'th'-wisp meteors, whose brilliancy is too often 
derived from the very grossness of that earth they 
illuminate we should swear, that by all these tawdry 
similitudes, this 'amber' and 'gold,' and 'golden- 
hoofed steeds,' he meant something not over charitable 
to the illustrious person so typified. It requires, in- 
deed, our utmost reliance upon the noble author's 
sublimity, not to suspect him of some little declension 
towards waggery in the line, ' With all his gorgeous 
company of clouds.' This, surely, is too happy and 
appropriate to be the mere casual windfall of sublimity. 
Aristophanes had already prepared us for the allusion 
by representing a ' company of Clouds ' as the secret 
advisers of Socrates ; and, in short, not to enter need- 
lessly into particulars, we know nothing in descriptive 
poetry more strikingly graphical than this motley mix- 
ture of gorgeousness and opacity, in which the poet has 
enveloped his * Majesty of day ' and ' his company.' 
The following is the concluding stanza of these delect- 
able verses. 

The tears, which we have shed, no more shall flow ; 
Your beauteous rising in our hearts shall glow ; 
And hymns of praise, as we behold your light, 
Shall warble from the bosom of the night ! 

Though we do not by any means agree with Lu- 
cretius, ' gigni posse ex non-sensibus sensus,' yet we 
think a little sense might be elicited out of this last 
couplet by the restitution of a single letter, which, we 
have no doubt, dropped out at the press : we would 
read, 'Shall warble from the bosom of the Knight ,' 



40 LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 

meaning evidently Sir Greorge Smart, who has the 
honour of presiding over the royal concerts. 

The remainder of this volume, to the amount of 
near three hundred pages, consists of poems upon 
various subjects, under the general title ' Sylva.' There 
is ' The Induction to my poem, which I designed to 
write, entitled England Triumphant,' and ' The Legend 
of the Knight of Illyria,' another fragment of another 
great work, in which his lordship thus introduces 
the dam and sire of a certain horse called Eupheme 

Milk-white she was, as is a holy heifer, 
And bore this son, as I have said, to Zephyr. 

Indeed, from the frequency and fondness with which 
this noble animal, the horse, is mentioned, we suspect 
that, like the famous philologer Henry Stephen, 1 his 
lordship writes most of his poems on horseback ; which 
makes it the more surprising that he should ever 
condescend to woo the c Musa pedestris,' or dismounted 
Muse, in numbers so very near the ground as the 
following : 

His warlike spear into his hand he took, 
And paced forth into Eupheme's stall ; 
Then loosed him, whereas in little nook 
That horse divine was tied to the wall. 

Or these 

But pity of that lady's sad mishap 
Did most torment him thro' the restless night ; 
He thinks the slave will in a dungeon clap 
Her tender limbs ; perhaps will kill outright ; 
Or, since he now hath got her in his trap, 
Will quite despoil, to feed his appetite. 

1 'Pleraque sua carmina equitans composuit,' says his bio- 
grapher. 



LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 41 

There is nothing more delightful than to be ad- 
mitted, as it were, into the workshop of genius ; to 
see the many unhewn masses of thought which are 
destined to grow beneath the chisel into forms of grace 
and magnificence ; to observe, too, how much of this 
precious material has been wasted in wild experiments 
and forgotten fragments ; and then turn with delight 
to the contemplation of one divine work, which, after 
nights of thought and days of labour, has at length 
risen into bright consummate beauty, and waits but 
the last superficial polish to take its place in a niche of 
Immortality's temple. This is no common treat, and 
with something like this (how like we will not say) the 
sublime Lord Thurlow has good-naturedly gratified us. 
We have already seen how kindly he lays open his 
workshop to the curious how many misshapen trunks, 
and pagod-looking things (some with hardly a foot to 
stand upon) he has generously submitted to the inspec- 
tion of literary virtuosi. But, not content with this 
exhibition of all he has done, or attempted to do, his 
lordship, in some verses addressed ' to the very noble 
and accomplished Lord Holland,' gives the following 
clear account of all he hereafter means to do. 

Perhaps, if time and grace be spared, 

We may prepare a flight, 
Wherein the heights of glory dared 

And the o'er-fabled night, 
From out those adamantine gates, 

And plains of penal woe, 
We may, returning to our mates, 

In blameless triumph go. 

I think, my lord, to build a verse, 

Which, if our language hold, 
Shall thro' the sides of darkness pierce. 

And to all time unfold 



42 LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 

In language of thrice golden praise 

And ever dear delight, 
What lives amid th' Olympic ivays, 

And in the shoreless night. 

The public, we are. convinced, will be all impatience to 
receive the very valuable information promised in this 
last couplet, and though his lordship seems to fear that 
our language may break down under him, we trust that 
no such accident will happen, but that he may perform 
his journey in safety to those ' adamantine gates ' he 
talks of, and tell us all about ' th' Olympic ways ' and 
' the shoreless night ' on his return. 

In the Appendix, or continuation of the Sylva, there 
is a poem of no less than four hundred lines' length, in 
praise of Althea, who, we at first supposed, must be 
some allegorical personage ; conceiving that nothing 
but a ( headstrong allegory from the banks of the Nile,' 
could run away with a man, through four hundred 
lines together, without suffering him to draw one 
breath of common sense by the way : but we believe,, 
after all, this Althea is a downright mortal mistress,. 
though, if she knows the meaning of his lordship's 
eulogy, she is much deeper in his secrets than we can 
ever expect to be. Menage was laughed at for writing 
to ladies in Greek; but we think Lord Thurlow's 
English has quite as little chance of being understood 
by them. We defy any Greek even Prize Greek to 
be much more puzzling than the following stanzas : 

Then are we to this fatal passion sworn, 

As innocent as is the balmy air ; 
Nay, often on the pinions of the morn, 

The angels to her golden rest repair. 
What promise I myself? this perfect praise 

Of spirits, and the large adoring world, 
That must upon her faultless beauty gaze, 

But shows the height from which I may be hurl'd. 



LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 43 

What virtue is in me 1 the way unknown, 
With no diviner guide, like Hercules, &c. &c. 

A fact, however, has transpired in these verses, which 
renders them important in a political point of view. 
It now turns out that neither Moscow, nor Spain, nor 
even the inspired fatuity of our own Government, in 
blundering on to success through more than twenty 
years of waste and failure, are to be assigned any 
longer as the causes (under Providence) of Napoleon's 
downfall and the deliverance of Europe ; for we now 
find, on the authority of these verses, it was Lord 
Thurlow's friend Althea that did it all : 

Ah me ! whatever is more soft and pure, 

Than all the world of womankind can show ; 
Whatever can to blameless love allure, 

And make us with heroic passion glow, 
In her, as in its native seat is found, 

As light has still most splendour in the sun : 
The name of England is by her renown'd, 

And by her charms Napoleon is undone. 

We have heard indeed of another illustrious claimant 
to the sole and exclusive glory of these happy events ; 
but it is not for us to undertake so delicate an arbitra- 
ment. Between that great person and Althea the 
matter rests at present. 

We come now to the ' Moonlight ' of the noble 
author, having already had a foretaste of his lunar 
inspirations in a sonnet (' Poems,' p. 196) beginning 
thus : 

How oft, Moon, in thy most tragic face, 
The travell'd map of mournful history, 

Some record of long-perish'd woe I trace, 
Fetch'd from old kings' moth-eaten memory. 



44 LORD THURLOW S POEMS. 

< Moonlight ' is dedicated to Lord Eldon. ' It is the 
labour,' the noble author says, ' of two days, and pre- 
sented to Lord Eldon on two accounts.' We shall try 
the patience and ingenuity of our readers with but one 
enigmatical extract from this poem; hoping, at the 
same time, that Lord Thurlow is less cruelly given than 
that ancient dealer in riddles, the Sphinx, who made a 
point of devouring all those that were unable to under- 
stand her conundrums. 

No soul has flown unto the gate of woe, 
Or to the blissful soil, or brush'd the shore 
Of Limbo with its wings ; or flown and lived : 
But yet intelligence from these has come, 
By angels, and pale ghosts, and vexed fools, 
That, straying as they wont, were blown athwart 
The nether world, from the oblivious pool 
Scarce 'scaping, on our scornful marge to land ; 
Thence to be blown by every idle wind, 
Their tale half told, with a new flight of fools, 
Eclectic, to the planetary void. 

On this extraordinary passage, its blown-about 
ghosts and eclectic flight of fools and on all such extra- 
ordinary passages in Lord Thurlow, we would willingly 
pass no severer sentence than that which a Mufti, whom 
Toderini mentions, 1 pronounced upon some verses of the 
Turkish poet Misri : ' Le sens de ces vers ne peut etre 
connu et entendu de personne que de Dieu et de 
Misri.' The noble author had evidently been reading 
Dante ; and the same process appears to have taken place, 
which, from his Lordship's peculiar affinities, must always 
occur upon his immersion into any such writers, he 
comes out encrusted with a rich deposit of their faults. 
Not all the authority of Dante 2 can reconcile us to hear- 

1 De la Litterature des Twrcs. 

2 Quando ci scorse Cerbero il gran vermo Inferno, canto 6. The 



LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 45 

ing the dog Cerberus called ' a worm ' with ( an iron 
throat.' 

At length we arrive at a story, which the noble 
author has condescended to finish ; one of those chefs- 
d'oeuvre from ' the working-house of thought,' which we 
have already said there is such fulness of delight in con- 
templating. ' The Doge's Daughter ' was written, as we 
are told in the dedication, for the laudable purpose of 
curing Lord Eldon of the gout : ' but I thank Grod,' 
says the dedicator, ' your Lordship's pain lasted not so 
long as my labour.' The poem, however, is here ready 
against any future attack ; and we trust the learned 
Lord will find benefit from the application. It is a 
conceit of Cowley, in speaking of Ovid's writings during 
his banishment, that ' the cold of the country had 
stricken through the very feet of his verses : ' and we 
really fear that the feet of Lord Thurlow's verses are 
not wholly free from that malady, for which he thinks 
them so sovereign a cure ; they have all its visible 
symptoms of hobbling and inflation, and indeed are in 
such a state as to make us feel that it would be bar- 
barous to handle them too roughly. We shall therefore 
be as gentle in our account of ' The Doge's Daughter ' as 
possible. 

The Poem opens with Aurora leaving the bed of 
that eternal old gentleman Tithonus, and Apollo 

Coining forth with all his state 
From the oriental gate ; 
Now the Doge was at his prayers ; 
And her bright and golden hairs 
Amphitrite combed free 
Underneath the crystal sea. 

' iron throat 'is a tasteful supplement of his lordship's. Ariosto calls 
the devil 'gran verme infernal.' To this there can be no objection 
whatever. 



46 LORD THURLOWS POEMti. 

We think this Doge must be quite as astonished to find 
himself 'at his prayers' between Apollo and Amphi- 
trite, as his brother Doge was upon seeing himself at 
the court of Louis XIV. 

But yet Heliodora lay, 

Turning from the golden clay, 

Naked, on her purple bed, 

Tears, like amber, she did shed, 

And her bosom heaved with groans, ' 

Fit to melt the marble stones 

That jut upon the Adrian shore. 

This gorgeous young lady, who lies upon purple, and 
weeps amber, is the Doge's daughter ; and, not having 
her recollection very clear about her in waking, she asks 
her nurse 

Is not this the fatal day, 
Tell me, Caneura, pray, 
When the Doge, my father, said, 
I should mount the marriage bed 
With the Lord Orsino's heir ? 
day of madness and despair ! 

The lover of her own choice is Frangipani ; she is, of 
course, superlatively wretched, and thus calls upon 6 the 
golden air ' of all conceivable and inconceivable things 
to pity her ! 

' pity me, thou golden air ! 
For pity to my God I fly ; 
O Frangipani, let me die 
If I behold thee not again ! ' 
Then, overcome with sudden pain, 
The maiden fell upon her back, 
All her reason gone to wrack. 

The nurse endeavours to console her : Frangipani, she 



LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 47 

suggests, is gone ; and it were ' idle pain ' to sigh after 
him. 

' Would you with Frangipani go 

An exile, o'er the mountain's snow ? 

Wo'ild you be the windy spouse 

Of a corsair ' 

But all the eloquence of the nurse is vain ; the maiden 
is not to be consoled ; though her talent for sleeping in 
such circumstances is truly enviable. 

No more the hapless virgin said ; 
But fell again upon the bed, 
And her bright and golden head 
In the dews of night was steep'd ; 
Long time then the maiden sleep* d. 

The nurse's heart is at length touched, whether by 
the profoundness of her lady's sorrow, or of her sleep, is 
left doubtful ; and she resolves to assist her in escaping 
to Frangipani. 

' I've an old head, and that can tell 
There's nothing so impossible, 
But that this eve, ere Hesper glow, 
To Frangipani thou shalt go. 
There's never a prince in Italy 
With my Heliodore shall lie, 
But I'll know the reason why : 
Unless, and I myself deceive, 
Frangipani give them leave.' 

This good old woman arranges their voyage in the same 
unaffected style. 

' To the port we'll make repair : 
I have a good brother there, 
Captain of the ship Saint Mark, 
Who will take us in the dark.' 



48 LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 

The young lady puts on sailor's clothes ; is told that c it 
will not hurt her chastity ' to learn to curse and swear 
a little ; and they embark for Athens. 

The Second Canto opens with their arrival in 'the 
Athenian Bay ; ' they see the Duke CEneus and his 
court ; 

And by his side a knight there rode, 

Much in semblance like a god ; 

who turns out to be Frangipani, though shrewdly sus- 
pected at first view to be Apollo : The Duke and his 
warriors depart on an expedition against the Pagans ; 
and Heliodora, after remarking that ' battle is a sweet 
delight,' resolves to follow them. She applies for equip- 
ment on the occasion to a facetious armourer, who 
quotes Anacreon, sings ballads about Achilles, and cries 
' Anan ? ' whenever he is spoken to. He accommodates 
her with a ready-made suit of armour ; and she arrives 
on the field of battle at the very moment when an able- 
bodied infidel is attacking her lover Frangipani. 

i 

She gave a cry, as doth a dove, 

Who death will for her offspring prove ; 

And, soul and body, to the fight 

She drove her steed against the knight : 

Like Jove's divine and winged dart, 

Her spear went right way thro' the heart, 

And o'er his crupper he fell dead : 

But Heliodore so swiftly sped, 

That, falling o'er the man her steed, 

She tumbled headlong on the mead. 

No sooner did the lady tumble, than 

Frangipani saw the thing ; 
And, making for himself a ring, 
Like Ajax, with his shield and blade, 
Protected the unhappy maid. 



LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 49 

He recognises his Heliodora in the prostrate knight ; 
and in short the story ends joyously with a marriage. 

The Duke of Athens join'd their hands, 
Love knit them in his golden bands, 
And while the stars their lustre spent, 
And to and fro young Hymen went, 
The Doge's daughter gave content 
For Frangipani's banishment. 

If this does not charm away Lord Eldon's gout. 1 we 
doubt whether even 'my maid's aunt at Brentford' 
could cure him ; though she, too, used to 'work by spells 
by the figure, and such daubery as this is ; beyond our 
element.' 

' The Doge's Daughter ' is followed by ' several trans- 
lations from Anacreon and Horace.' ' The sense of the 
former poet,' his lordship tells us, 'has never been 
poetically given except by Cowley.' He says also, ' This, 
at least, is due to me, that I have not wandered far from 
my author ; nor made that evil, which I found entirely 
void of it.' If the noble author could have extended 
this last-mentioned favour to the poetry as well as the 
morality of his original, we might, perhaps, have been 
regaled with something better than the stale musty 
pot-pourri of poor Anacreon's roses he has given us. 
Boileau describes one of the guests at his well-known 
dinner, ' lamentant tristement une chanson bachique ; ' 
and heartily do we pity the audience, if they were 
doomed to more doleful ' Anacreontiques ' than the fol- 
lowing : 

What needs it then the stone t' anoint, 
Special, if here you disappoint 

1 The remedy is not quite new : From Buchanan's melancholy 
elegy upon his gout, it appears he sometimes took a dose of the 
poetry of Turnebus * Aonii rarissima gloria coetus.' 

E 



50 LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 

Our greedy thirst, or on the earth 
To pour down the goblet's worth ? 
Me rather, while I live, with oil 
Anoint, and with the rose's spoil 
Adorn my head, for life is short, 
And call me here a maid to court. 

The noble translator, however, is sometimes more 
amusing ; as in the Ode beginning 

Yes, I wish, I wish to love ; 

Cupid of old this thing did move ; 

But I, who had no prudent mind, &c. &c. 

Such flights, however, are rare, and he has even been 
at the trouble of inventing for himself a grave, steady 
sort of blank verse ' Anacreontique,' to save him from 
all possible risk of degenerating into the usual airiness 
of this species of composition : 

Then the cup let us accept, 

And our wrinkled cares dismiss ; 

For what benefit to you, 

By solicitude disturb' d ? 

Have we known whate'er shall be 1 

Life to men is wholly dark. 

And this is poetry ! surely, to give the name of poetry 
to such lines as we have quoted but too abundantly 
throughout this article merely because they are fur- 
nished with their proper quota of syllables is a stretch 
of complaisance, only to be equalled by that of Linnaeus 
when he classed bats with mankind in consideration of 
their mammae. Horace has fared no better under his 
lordship's hands than Anacreon ; ' Si flava excutitur 
Cloe,' is translated ' If yellow Cloe go to wrack.' 

There is still another publication on the list, called 
' Ariadne ; ' but we are so anxious, before we take 



LORD THURL01VS POEMS. 51 

leave of Lord Thurlow, to give our readers some speci- 
men of his happier efforts, which may excuse, if not 
justify us in their eyes for bestowing so many pages 
on such a writer, that we shall despatch this last pro- 
duction in as few words as possible. 

The heroine, Ariadne, is left alone on a desert island 
by her lover not Theseus, as in our ignorance we 
expected, but one ' Lord Marinell ' and 

There sits, 

And with her tears augments the briny flood, 
Love's prodigal and widow of despite. 

This ' Despite,' whose widow the unfortunate lady is, 
must be some relation, we surmise, to ' that vile thief 
Deformed,' who, in Dogberry's time, used to ' go up 
and down like a gentleman.' Amphitrite, however, 
takes pity on the deserted lady and sends Ariel. But 
we really are unable to get through the story, and 
must, like Sloth in the Lutrin, break off in the middle 
of our narration, happy, if good breeding can keep 
us from imitating that goddess when she, 

succombant sous Feffort, 
Soupire, etend les bras, ferme 1'ceil et s'endort. 

We shall only remark that it required no ordinary 
courage to take Ariel in hand after Shakespeare, and 
that his fate here very touchingly reminds us of the 
story of poor Ver-vert. That divinely-spoken bird, in 
his way to the nuns who borrowed him, forgot the holy 
language, for which he had been famed, and learned all 
sorts of vulgar abominations instead ; and we are sorry 
to say the loan of Prospero's ' bird ' to Lord Thurlow 
has been attended with quite as provoking a meta- 
morphosis. 

But it is time to give the more favourable speci- 

B 2 



52 LORD THUHLOJrS POEMS. 

mens we have promised. The following reflections 
upon the ' Sacred Islands ' are in the noble author's 
very best manner : 

There sorrow never enters, nor sad pain 
Afflicts, but joy with youthful love is wed, 
And endless summer o'er the clime doth reign : 
There the great poets and the heroes dwell, 
And kings, who held the glorious sceptre well. 

And there too you, but be the season long, 
My * *, shall repose in soft delight ; 
And feed your perfect soul with Virgil's song, 
Your temples with pure laurel chastely dight ; 
Since still you sought the right, and left the wrong, 
There through the golden day, and radiant night, 
Your bliss shall be ; but ah ! I fable here ; 
Your virtue will be crown'd in higher sphere. 

Hermilda. 

The following extract from his Lordship's Appendix 
to the Sylva contains as few of those faults which are 
peculiar to himself, with as many of those beauties 
which are common to him with thousands, as any we 
can select : 

Much pleasure yet there is, and sweetness too, 

In this pale look of the declining year ; 
I know not if the golden summer's hue 

More soft to me or lovely can appear ; 
The nightingale, indeed, is flown away, 

The zephyr on its joyous wing is gone, 
But yet the robin pours a plaintive lay, 

And a soft murmur makes the air its own ! 
Then thus to lie amid these mournful bowers, 

To dream of joys that may again return, 
T' extract the worth of these declining hours, 

Shall make my fancy soar, my spirit burn : 
Let others love the summer's flattering glare, 
But I will sing to the autumnal air ! 



LORD THURLO1FS POEMS. 53 

Indeed, we rather think the most respectable efforts 
of the noble author's pen are to be found among these 
lesser pieces of the Sylva and the Appendix ; though, at 
the same time, truth obliges us to add, that in proportion 
as they grow rational, they cease to be amusing ; and 
that we have never read poetry, which explained to 
us so perfectly, why that people of antiquity the Troe- 
zenians we believe sacrificed to Sleep and the Muses 
on the same altar. 



We had concluded this article, when we received, 
by express, another Poem from the pen of this inde- 
fatigable nobleman, entitled ' Carmen Britannicum, 
or, the Song of Britain, written in honour of his Eoyal 
Highness the Prince Kegent.' This is really overpower- 
ing; and we find we have not a moment to lose in 
adopting the measure suggested at the beginning of the 
article, and appropriating one of our brethren exclusively 
to his lordship. The ' Carmen Britannicum ' is admir- 
able in its way ; and we only regret that we have not 
room for abundant extracts from it. He traces the 
descent of the Eegent in a direct line from Jupiter, 
through Hercules, Glaucus, the Tarquins, &c., down to 
Azo, son of Hugo, 

From whom our kings the Saxon sceptre claim, 
And the White Horse do in their banners place. 

From Azo, the pedigree flows downward through several 
other c sons of gods,' till it ends most satisfactorily in 
the Prince Regent ; whom the poet thus addresses 

The sun beholds thee with uprising love, 

And joyous, laughs, in his thrice-golden sphere, 



54 LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 

And does reluctant from thy presence move \ 
The, son of Jove, thou to his beams art dear. 

He has the hardihood, however, in one memorable line, 
to charge this illustrious person with a deed, of which 
few have ever suspected him to be capable 

Thames, by thy victories, is set on fire ! 

and we are agreeably surprised to find from the following- 
couplets, that India and Africa are the birth-places of 
some of those obnoxious things about Court, which we 
had very much feared were all of home extraction 

All herbs of earth are in thy gardens seen, 
And in thy forests every glorious tree ; 
The Indian world has been despoiled clean, 
And Africa, to find new beasts for thee ! 

One more passage, and we have done. 

This is thy praise : but greater is thy bliss 
To sit enthroned upon the regal chair, 
And see around thee what no land but this 
Can yield to thought of beautiful and fair ; 
Ladies, whom Nature for a pattern made, 
In shape, in stature, in complexion pure. 

And now we, for the second time, take our leave of 
Lord Thurlow ; heartily wishing that as he styles him- 
self ' the Priest ' of the Prince Eegent, and seems to 
threaten many more such oblations at his shrine, he 
would, at once, assume the laurel in form, and eman- 
cipate the brows of the present wearer, whose Pegasus 
is much too noble an animal to be doomed to act the 
part of a cream-coloured horse upon birth-days. 



55 

THE FATHERS.^ 

[Nov. 1814.] 

had thought that the merits of the fathers were 
beginning to be pretty fairly estimated ; that, whatever 
reverence might still be due to those eminent men for 
the sanctity of their lives, their laborious lucubrations, 
their zeal and intrepidity in the cause of the Church, 
and all those solemn and imposing lights, in which 
their nearness to the rising sun of Christianity places 
them ; yet that the time of their authority over con- 
science and opinion was gone by ; that they were no 
longer to be regarded as guides, either in faith or in 
morals ; and that we should be quite within the pale of 
orthodoxy in saying that, though admirable martyrs 
and saints, they were, after all, but indifferent Christians. 
In point of style, too, we had supposed that criticism 
was no longer dazzled by their sanctity ; that few would 
now agree with the learned Jesuit, Garasse, that a chap- 
ter of St. Augustine on the Trinity is worth all the 
Odes of Pindar ; that, in short, they had taken their 
due rank among those affected and rhetorical writers, 
who flourished in the decline of ancient literature, and 
were now, like many worthy authors we could mention, 
very much respected and never read. 

We had supposed all this ; but we find we were 
mistaken. An eminent dignitary of the Church of 
England has lately shown that, in his opinion at least, 
these veterans are by no means invalided in the warfare 
of theology, for he has brought more than seventy 
volumes of them into the ' field against the Calvinists. 

1 Select Passages of the Writings of St. Ckrysostom, St. Gregory 
Nazianzen, and St. Basil. Translated from the Greek by Hugh 
Stuart Boyd. 



56 THE FATHERS. 

And here is Mr. Boyd, a gentleman of much Greek, who 
assures us that the Homilies of St. Chrysostom, the 
Orations of St. Gregory Nazianzen, and proh pudor ! 
the Amours of Daphnis and Chloe, are models of 
eloquence, atticism, and fine writing. 

Mr. Boyd has certainly chosen the safer, as well as 
pleasanter path, through the neglected field of learning, 
for, tasteless as the metaphors of the Fathers are in 
general, they are much more innocent and digestible 
than their arguments, as the learned bishop we have 
just alluded to may perhaps by this time acknowledge; 
having found, we suspect, that his seventy folios are, 
like elephants in battle, not only ponderous, but dan- 
gerous auxiliaries, which, when once let loose, may be 
at least as formidable to friends as to foes. This, 
indeed, has always been a characteristic of the writings 
of the Fathers. This ambidexterous faculty, this sort 
of Swiss versatility in fighting equally well upon both 
sides of the question, has distinguished them through 
the whole history of theological controversy. The 
same authors, the same passages have been quoted with 
equal confidence by Arians and Athanasians, Jesuits' 
and Jansenists, Transubstantiators and Typifiers. Nor 
is it only the dull and bigoted who have had recourse 
to these self-refuted authorities for their purpose ; we 
often find the same anxiety for their support, the same 
disposition to account them, as Chillingworth says, 
' Fathers when /or, and children when against,'' in 
quarters where a greater degree of good sense and 
fairness might be expected. Even Middleton himself, 
who makes so light of the opinions of the Fathers in 
his learned and manly Inquiry into Miracles, yet courts 
their sanction with much assiduity for his favourite 
system of allegorising the Mosaic history of the creation ; 
a point on which, of all others, their alliance is most 



THE FATHERS. 57 

* 

dangerous, as there is no subject upon which their 
Pagan imaginations have rioted more ungovernably. 

The errors of these primitive Doctors of the Church, 
their Christian heathenism and heathen Christianity, 
which led them to look for the Trinity among those 
shadowy forms that peopled the twilight groves of the 
Academy, and to array the meek, self-humbling Christian 
in the proud and iron armour of the Portico, their 
bigoted rejection of the most obvious truths in natural 
science, the bewildering vibration of their moral doc- 
trines, never resting between the extremes of laxity and 
rigour, their credulity, their inconsistencies of conduct 
and opinion, and, worst of all, their forgeries and false- 
hoods, have already been so often and so ably exposed 
by divines of all countries, religions, and sects, the 
Dtipins, Mosheims, Middletons, Clarkes, Jortins, &c., 
that it seems superfluous to add another line upon the 
subject, though we are not quite sure that, in the 
present state of Europe, a discussion of the merits of 
the Fathers is not as seasonable and even fashionable a 
topic as we could select. At a time when the Inqui- 
sition is re-established by our c beloved Ferdinand ; ' 
when the Pope again brandishes the keys of St. Peter 
with an air worthy of a successor of the Hildebrands 
and Perettis ; when canonization is about to be inflicted 
on another Louis, and little silver models of embryo 
princes are gravely vowed at the shrine of the Virgin ; 
in times like these, it is not too much to expect that 
such enlightened authors as St. Jerome and Tertullian 
may soon become the classics of most of the Continental 
courts. We shall therefore make no further apology 
for prefacing our remarks upon Mr. Boyd's translations 
with a few brief and desultory notices of some of the 
most distinguished Fathers and their works. 

St. Justin the Martyr is usually considered as the 



58 THE FATHERS. 

well-spring of most of those strange errors which flowed 
so abundantly through the early ages of the Church, 
and spread around them in their course such luxuriance 
of absurdity. The most amiable, and therefore the 
least contagious of his heterodoxies, 1 was that which 
led him to patronise the souls of Socrates and other 
Pagans, in consideration of those glimmerings of the 
divine Logos which his fancy discovered through the 
dark night of heathenism. The absurd part of this 
opinion remained, while its tolerant spirit evaporated ; 
and while these pagans were still allowed to have 
known something of the Trinity, they were yet damned 
for not knowing more, with most unrelenting ortho- 
doxy. 

The belief of an intercourse between angels and 
women, founded upon a false version of a text in Genesis, 
and of an abundant progeny of demons in consequence, 
is one of those monstrous notions of St. Justin and other 
Fathers, which show how little they had yet purged off 
the grossness of Heathen mythology, and in how many 
respects their heaven was but Olympus with other 
names. 2 Yet we can hardly be angry with them for 

1 Still more benevolent was Origen's never-to-be-forgiven 
dissent from the doctrine of eternal damnation. To this amiable 
weakness more than anything else, this Father seems to have owed 
the forfeiture of his rank in the Calendar ; and in return for his 
anxiety to rescue the human race from hell, he has been sent thither 
himself by more than one Catholic theologian. 

2 See, for their reveries upon this subject, Clem. Alex. Stromat. 
Lib. 5, p. 550. Ed. Lutet. 1629. Tertullian de HaUtu Mulieb. 
cap. 2, and the extraordinary passage of this Father (de Virgin, 
veland.), where his editor Pamelius endeavours to save his morality 
at the expense of his Latinity, by the substitution of the word ' ex- 
cussat ' for ' excusat.' See also St. Basil de verd Virginitate, torn. i. 
p. 747, edit. Paris ; though it is but fair to say, that Basil's bio- 
grapher Hermant, and others, think this treatise spurious ; and it 
certainly contains many things not of the most sanctified descrip- 
tion. 






THE FATHERS. 59 

this one error, when we recollect, that possibly to their 
enamoured Angels we owe the beautiful world of Sylphs 
and Grnomes ; l and that perhaps at this moment we 
might have wanted Pope's most exquisite poem, if the 
Septuagint Version had translated the book of Genesis 
correctly. 

This doctrine, as far as it concerned angelic natures, 
was at length indignantly disavowed by St. Chrysostom. 
But Demons were much too useful a race to be so easily 
surrendered to reasoning or ridicule ; there was no get- 
ting up a decent miracle without them : exorcists would 
have been out of employ, and saints at a loss for tempta- 
tion. Accordingly, the writings of these holy Doctors 
abound with such stories of demoniacal possession as 
make us alternately smile at their weakness and blush 
for their dishonesty. 2 Nor are they chargeable only 
with the impostures of their own times ; the sanction 
they gave to this petty diabolism has made them re- 
sponsible for whole centuries of juggling. Indeed, who- 
ever is anxious to contemplate a picture of human folly 
and human knavery, at the same time ludicrous and 
melancholy, may find it in a history of the exploits of 
Demons, from the days of the Fathers down to modern 
times ; from about the date of that theatrical little 
devil of Tertullian (so triumphantly referred to by 
Jeremy Collier), who claimed a right to take possession 
of a woman in the theatre, 'because he there found 
her on his own ground,' to the gallant demons com- 
memorated by Bodin 3 and Remigius, 4 and such tragical 

1 Le Comte de Gabalis. 

2 Middleton's Free Inquiry. It would be difficult to add any- 
thing new to this writer upon the subject ; and he is too well known 
to render extracts necesssary. 

3 De la Demonomanie des Sorciers. 

4 Denionolatreia, lib. i. cap. vi. The depositions of the two sorce- 
resses, Alexia Dirigasa and Claudia Fellasa, are particularly curious. 



60 THE FATHERS. 

farces as the possession of the nuns of Loudun. The same 
features of craft and dupery are discoverable through 
the whole from beginning to end ; and when we have 
read of that miraculous person, Gregory Thaumaturgus,, 
writing a familiar epistle to Satan, and then turn to the 
story of the Young Nun, in Bodin, in whose box was 
found a love-letter ' a son cher daemon,' l we need not 
ask more perfect specimens of the two wretched extremes 
of imposture and credulity than these two very differ- 
ent letter-writers afford. 

The only class of demons whose loss we regret, and 
whose visitations we would gladly have restored to us,, 
are those ' seducing sprites, who,' as Theophilus of An- 
tioch tells us, ' confessed themselves to be the same that 
had inspired the Heathen Poets.' The learned Father 
has not favoured us with any particulars of these inte- 
resting spirits ; has said nothing of the ample wings of 
fire,which,we doubt not, the demons of Homer and Pindar 
spread out, nor described the laughing eyes of Horace's 
familiar, nor even the pointed tail of the short devil of 
Martial ; but we own we should like to see such cases 
of possession in our days ; and though we Ke viewers are 
a kind of exorcists, employed to cast out the evil demon 
of scribbling, and even pride ourselves upon having 
performed some notable cures, from suck demoniacs we 
would refrain with reverence ; nay, so anxiously dread 
the escape of the Spirit, that, for fear of accidents, we 
would not suffer a Saint to come near them. 

The belief of a Millennium or temporal reign of Christ 
during which the faithful were to be indulged in all 

1 He quotes the story from Wier, a great patron of the demons of 
that time, who, we are told, invented a Monarchic Diabolique- 
avec les noms et les surnoms de cinq cent soixante-douze Princes 
des Demons, et de sept- millions quatre cent cinq mille neuf cent 
vingt-six diables, sauf erreur de calcul.' Teissier, Eloges de* 
Hommes Savans. 



THE FATHERS. 61 

sorts of sensual gratifications, may be reckoned among 
those gross errors, for which neither the Porch nor the 
Academy are accountable, but which grew up in the rank 
soil of oriental fanaticism, and were nursed into doctrines 
of Christianity by the Fathers. Though the world's best 
religion comes from the East, its very worst supersti- 
tions have sprung thence also ; as in the same quarter 
of the heavens arises the sunbeam that gives life to the 
flower, and the withering gale that blasts it. There is 
scarcely one of these fantastic opinions of the Fathers, 
that may not be traced among the fables of the ancient 
Persians and Arabians. The voluptuous Jerusalem of 
St. Justin and Irenseus may be found in those glorious 
gardens of Iram, which were afterwards converted into 
the Paradise of the Faithful by Mahomet ; and their 
enamoured ' Sons of Grod ' may be paralleled in the 
Angels Harut and Marut of Eastern story, 1 who, bewil- 
dered by the influence of wine and beauty, forfeited their 
high celestial rank, and were degraded into teachers of 
magic upon earth. 

The mischievous absurdity of some of the moral 
doctrines of the Fathers, the state of apathy to which 
they would reduce their Grnostic or perfect Christian, 
their condemnation of marriage and their monkish fan- 
cies about celibacy, the extreme to which they carried 
their notions of patience, even to the prohibition of all 
resistance to aggression, though the aggressor aimed at 
life itself ; the strange doctrine of St. Augustine, that 
the Saints are the only lawful proprietors of the things 
of this world, and that the wicked have no right what- 
ever to their possessions, however human laws may de- 
cree to the contrary ; the indecencies in which too many 



1 Notes on the Baliar-DanusJi. Mariti gives the story differ- 
ently. 



62 THE FATHERS. 

of them have indulged in their writings ; l the profane 
frivolity of Tertullian, in making Grod himself prescribe 
the length and measure of women's veils, in a special 
revelation to some ecstatic spinster ; and the moral in- 
dignation with which Clemens Alexandrinus inveighs 
against white bread, periwigs, coloured stuffs, and lap- 
dogs ; all these, and many more such puerile and per- 
nicious absurdities, open a wide field of weedy fancies 
for ridicule to skim, and good sense to trample upon. 
But we must content ourselves with referring to the 
works that have been written upon the subject ; particu- 
larly to the treatise ' de la Morale des Peres ' of Bar- 
beyrac ; which, though as dull and tiresome as could 
reasonably be expected from the joint efforts of the 
Fathers of the Church and a Law Professor of Groningen, 
abundantly proves that the moral tenets of these holy 
men are for the most part unnatural, fanatical, and dan- 
gerous ; founded upon false interpretations of Holy Writ, 
and the most gross and anile ignorance of human nature ; 
and that a community of Christians, formed upon their 
plan, is the very Utopia of Monkery, idleness and fana- 
ticism. 

Luckily, the impracticability of these wretched doc- 
trines was in general a sufficient antidote to their mis- 
chief. But there were two maxims, adopted and enforced 
by many of the Fathers, which deserve to be branded 
with particular reprobation, not only because they acted 
upon them continually themselves, to the disgrace of 
the holy cause in which they were engaged, but because 
they have transmitted their contamination to posterity 

1 We need but refer to the second and third Books of the Pceda- 
goyus of Clemens Alexandrinus ; to some passages in Tertullian 
de Animd ; and to the instances which La Mothe le Vayer has 
adduced from Chrysostom in his Hexameron Rmtiqiie Journ. 
Second. 



THE FATHERS. 63 

and left the features of Christianity to this day disfigured 
by their taint. The first of these maxims (we give it 
in the words of Mosheim) was, ' that it is an act of 
virtue to deceive and lie, when by such means the 
interests of the Church may be promoted.' 1 To this 
profligate principle the world owes, not only the fables 
and forgeries of these primitive times, but many of those 
evasions, those compromises between conscience and 
expediency, which are still thought necessary and justi- 
fiable for the support of religious establishments. So 
industrious were the churchmen of the early ages in the 
inculcation of this monstrous doctrine, that we find the 
Bishop Heliodorus insinuating it, as a general principle 
of conduct, through the seductive medium of his Romance 
Theagenes and Chariclea. 2 The second maxim, ' equally 
horrible,' says Mosheim, ' though in a different point 
of view, was that errors in religion, when main- 
tained and adhered to after proper admonition, are 
punishable with civil penalties and corporeal tortures/ 
St. Augustine has the credit of originating this detest- 
able doctrine ; to him, it seems, we are indebted for 
first conjuring up that penal Spirit, which has now, 
for so many hundred years, walked the earth, and whose 
votaries, from the highest to the meanest, from St. 
Augustine down to Doctor Duigenan, from the perse- 
cutors of the African Donatists to the calumniators and 
oppressors of the Irish Catholics, are all equally disgrace- 
ful to that mild religion, in whose name they have 
dared to torment and subjugate mankind. 

With respect to the literary merits of the Fathers, 
it will hardly be denied, that to the sanctity of their 
subjects they owe much of that imposing effect which 

1 Ecclesiast. Hist. Cent. 4, Part ii. Chap. iii. 

2 KaA&i/ yap irorf /cal r6 ^eCSos, '6rav &<f>e\ovv TOI/S \eyovras, 

rovs aKovovras. ^thiopic. Lib. i. 



64 THE FATHERS. 

they have produced upon the minds of their admirers. 
We have no doubt that the incoherent rhapsodies of the 
Pythia (whom, history tells us, the ministers of the 
temple now and then helped to a verse) found many an 
orthodox critic among their hearers who preferred them 
to the sublimest strains of Homer and Pindar. Indeed, 
the very last of the Fathers, St. Gregory the Great, has 
at once settled the point for all critics of theological 
writings, by declaring that the words of Divine Wisdom 
are not amenable to the laws of the vulgar grammar 
of this world ; l ' non debent verba cselestis originis 
subesse regulis Donati.' 

It must surely be according to some such code of 
criticism that Lactantius has been ranked above Cicero, 
and that Erasmus himself has ventured to prefer St. 
Basil to Demosthenes. Even the harsh, muddy, and 
unintelligible Tertullian, whom Salmasius gave up in 
despair, has found a warm admirer in Balzac, who pro- 
fesses himself enchanted with the ' black lustre ' of his 
style, and compares his obscurity to the rich and glossy 
darkness of ebony. The three Greek Fathers, whom the 
writer before us has selected, are in general considered 
the most able and eloquent of any ; and of their merits 
our readers shall presently have an opportunity of 
judging, as far as a few specimens from Mr. Boyd's 
translations can enable them : but, for our own parts, 
we confess, instead of wondering with this gentleman 
that his massy favourites should be 'doomed to a 
temporary oblivion,' we are only surprised that such 
affected declaimers should ever have enjoyed a better 
fate ; or that even the gas of holiness with which they 
are inflated, could ever have enabled its coarse and 
gaudy vehicles to soar so high into the upper regions 
of reputation. It is South, we believe, who has said, 

1 In the dedication of his Book of Morals. 



THE FATHERS. 65 

that ' in order to be pious, it is not necessary to be 
dull,' but even dulness itself is far more decorous than 
the puerile conceits, the flaunting metaphors, and all 
that false finery of rhetorical declamation, in which 
these writers have tricked out their most solemn and 
important subjects. At the time, indeed, when they 
studied and wrote, the glories of ancient literature had 
faded ; sophists and rhetoricians had taken the place of 
philosophers and orators ; nor is it wonderful that from 
such instructors as Libanius, they should learn to reason 
ill and write affectedly. But the same florid effemi- 
nacies of style, which in a love-letter of Philostratus, or 
an ecphrasis of Libanius, are harmless at least, if not 
amusing, become altogether disgusting when applied 
to sacred topics ; and are little less offensive to piety 
and good taste than those rude exhibitions of the old 
Moralities, in which Christ and his Apostles appeared 
dressed out in trinkets, tinsel, and embroidery. 

The chief advantage that a scholar can now derive 
from the perusal of these voluminous Doctors is the 
light they throw upon the rites and tenets of the 
Pagans, in the exposure and refutation of which they 
are, as is usually the case, much more successful than 
in the defence and illustration of their own. In this 
respect Clemens Alexandrinus is one of the most valu- 
able, being chiefly a compiler of the dogmas of ancient 
learning, and abounding with curious notices of the 
religion and literature of the Gentiles. Indeed the 
manner in which some of the Fathers have been edited, 
sufficiently proves that they were considered by their 
commentators as merely a sort of inferior classics, upon 
which to hang notes about heathen gods and philo- 
sophers. Ludovicus Vives, upon the ' City of God ' of 
St. Augustine, is an example of this class of theological 
annotators, whom a hint about the three Graces, or the 

r 



66 THE FATHERS. 

god of Lampsacus, awakens into more activity than 
whole pages about the Trinity and the Resurrection. 

The best specimen of eloquence we have met among 
the Fathers at least that which we remember to have 
read with most pleasure is the Charisteria, or Oration 
of Thanks, delivered by Gregory Thaumaturgus to his 
instructor Origen. Though rhetorical like the rest, it 
is of a more manly and simple character, and does 
credit alike to the master and the disciple. 1 But, upon 
the whole, perhaps St. Augustine is the author whom 
if ever we should be doomed, in penance for our sins, to 
select a Father for our private reading we should 
choose, as, in our opinion, the least tiresome of the 
brotherhood. It is impossible not to feel interested in 
those struggles between passion and principle, out of 
which his maturer age rose so triumphant; and there 
is a conscious frailty mingling with his precepts, and at 
times throwing its shade over the light of his piety, 
which gives his writings an air peculiarly refreshing, 
after the pompous rigidity of Chrysostom, the stoic 
affectations of Clemens Alexandrinus, and the anti- 
thetical trifling of Gregory Nazianzen. If it were not 
too for the indelible stain which his conduct to the 
Donatists has left upon his memory, the philosophic 
mildness of his tract against the Manichseans, and the 
candour with which he praises his heretical antagonist 
Pelagius, as ' sanctum, bonum et praedicandum virum,' 
would have led us to select him as an example of that 
tolerating spirit, which, we grieve to say, is so very 
rare a virtue among the Saints. Though Augustine, 
after the season of his follies was over, very sedulously 

1 The abstract of this Oration which Halloix professes to give in 
his Defence of Origen, is so very wide of the original, that we sus- 
pect he must have received it, at second hand, from some inaccurate 
reporter. 



THE FATHERS. 67 

avoided the society of females, yet he corresponded with 
most of the holy women of his time ; and there is a 
strain of tenderness through many of his letters to 
them, in which his weakness for the sex rather interest- 
ingly betrays itself. It is in the consolatory epistles, 
particularly, that we discover these embers of his youth- 
ful temperament as in the 93rd to Italica, on the 
death of her husband, and the 263rd to Sapida, in 
return for a garment she had sent him, in the thoughts 
of which there is a considerable degree of fancy as well 
as tenderness. 

We cannot allude to these fair correspondents of 
Augustine without remarking that the warmest and 
best allies of the Fathers, in adopting their fancies and 
spreading their miracles, appear to have been those 
enthusiastic female pupils, by groups of whom they 
were all constantly encircled ; l whose imaginations 
required but little fuel of fact, and whose tongues 
would not suffer a wonder to cool in circulating. The 
same peculiarities of temperament which recommended 
females in the Pagan world as the fittest sex to receive 
the inspirations of the tripod, made them valuable 
agents also in the imposing machinery of miracles. At 
the same time, it must be confessed that they performed 
services of a much higher nature ; and that to no cause 
whatever is Christianity more signally indebted for the 
impression it produced in those primitive ages, than to 
the pure piety, the fervid zeal, and heroic devotedness 

1 None of the Fathers, with the exception perhaps of St. Jerome, 
appears to have had such influence over the female mind as Origen. 
His correspondence with Barbara is still extant. She was shut up 
by her Pagan father in a tower with two windows, to which, in 
honour of the Trinity, we are told, she added a third. St. Jerome 
had to endure much scandal, in consequence of his two favourite 
pupils, Paula and Melania, of which he complains very bitterly in 
the epistle ' Si tibi putem,' &c. 

F 2 



68 THE FATHERS. 

of the female converts. In the lives of these holy 
virgins and matrons, in the humility of their belief and 
the courage of their sufferings, the Grospel found a far 
better illustration than in all the voluminous writings 
of the Fathers : there are some of them, indeed, whose 
adventures are sufficiently romantic to suggest materials 
to the poet and the novelist ; and Ariosto himself has 
condescended to borrow from the Legends l his curious 
story of Isabella and the Moor, to the no small horror 
of the pious Cardinal Baronius, who remarks with much, 
asperity on the sacrilege of which ' that vulgar poet ' 
has been guilty, in daring to introduce this sacred story 
among his fictions. To the little acquaintance these 
women could have formed with the various dogmas of 
ancient philosophy, and to the unencumbered state of 
their minds in consequence, may be attributed much 
of that warmth and clearness with which the light of 
Christianity shone through them; whereas, in the 
learned heads of the Fathers, this illumination found a 
more dense and coloured medium, which turned its 
celestial beam astray, and tinged it with all sorts of 
gaudy imaginations. Even where these women indulged 
in theological reveries, as they did not embody their 
fancies into folios, posterity, at least, has been nothing 
the worse for them; nor should we have known the 
strange notions of Saint Macrina about the soul and 
the resurrection, if her brother, Gregory of Nyssa, had 
not rather officiously informed us of them, in the dia- 
logue he professes to have held with her on these im- 
portant subjects. 2 

1 From the story of the Roman virgin Euphrasia. See also the 
Life of Euphrosyna (in Bergomensis de Clans Mulieribus), which, 
with the difference of a father and lover, resembles the latter part 
of the Memoir cs de Commmgex. 

2 Opera,) torn. ii. p. 177. Edit. Paris, 1638. 



THE FATHERS. 69 

We now come to Mr. Boyd's Translations, which 
are preceded by a short, but pompous preface, in whose 
loftiness of style we at once discover that, like that 
insect which takes the colour of the leaf it feeds upon, 
the translator has caught the gaudy hue of his originals 
most successfully. Indeed, from the evident tendencies 
of this gentleman's taste, we should pronounce him a 
most dangerous person to be entrusted with a version 
of the Fathers ; for, the fault of these writers being 
a superabundance of metaphors, and Mr. Boyd being 
quite as metaphorically given as themselves, the conse- 
quence is, that, wherever there is a flourish of this kind 
in the original, he is sure to add another of his own to 
it in the translation ; which is really ' too much of a 
good thing.' If double flowers are to be held monsters 
in botany, with much greater reason must these double 
and treble flowers of rhetoric be accounted monstrosities 
in the system of taste. The first specimen we shall 
give is from ' the Peroration of St. Chrysostom's Third 
Oration on the Incomprehensible,' where the Saint is 
speaking of the season of the Eucharist : 

In a moment so sublime, how exalted should be thy hope, 
how great thy longing for salvation ! Heaven's canopy 
resounds not with the piercing cry of mortals only : angels 
fall prostrate before their Lord : archangels kneel before 
their God. The season itself becomes an argument on their 
lips ; the oblation an advocate in their cause. And as men, 
in the office of intercession, cutting down branches of olive, 
wave them before their king, by the blooming plant remind- 
ing him of mercy and compassion ; so likewise the host of 
angels, in the place of olive-branches extending the body of 
their Lord, invoke the common Parent in the cause of human 
nature ! WJiat strain seraphic bursts on my enraptured 
organs ? I hear their celestial accents ! I hear them even 
now exclaiming ' We entreat for those whom thou didst 
love with so God-like an affection, as to yield up thy life for 



70 THE FATHERS. 

theirs ! We pour our petitions in behalf of those for whom 
thou didst shed thy blood ! ' (Pp. 23, 24.) 

Whatever may be thought of the sublimity of the 
passage printed in italics, St. Chrysostom has nothing 
to do with either the praise or the blame of it ; as he 
merely says that these angels ' invoke the Lord for the 
human race, almost, or all but exclaiming (povov ov^l 
\eyovrss) we pray for those, &c.' So that the ' seraphic 
strains ' and ' enraptured organs ' are all to be set down 
to Mr. Boyd's account. 

In the extract which follows, upon the efficacy of 
prayer, St. Chrysostom says ' I speak of that prayer 
which is offered up with earnestness ; with a sorrowing 
soul, and an enthusiastic spirit ; for that is the prayer 
which ascends to Heaven.' Thus it is in the original ; 
but how has the poetic Mr. Boyd translated this simple 
passage ? 

I speak of that prayer which is the child of a contrite 
spirit, the offspring of a soul converted, born in a blaze of 
unutterable enthusiasm, and winged, like lightning, for the 
skies ! (P. 28.) 

This eulogy of prayer concludes with the following 
simile : 

For, as the tree, whose roots are buried in the earth, 
though assaulted by a thousand tempests, knows not to be 
rent asunder, and defies the storm ; so likewise, the prayer 
implanted in the soul, and from thence arising, spreads wide 
its luxuriant foliage, elevates its aspiring head, and laughs 
unhurt at the impotent assailer. (P. 31.) 

Here again we must step in to the defence of the 
original, which says nothing whatever of the prayer's 
c luxuriant foliage,' nor of this indecorous ' laugh ' which 
Mr. Boyd has conferred upon it. But there is no end 



THE FATHERS. 71 

to his adscititious graces ; tie seems indeed to think 
that, as a translator of saints, it is but right for him to 
deal in such works of supererogation ; but we are sorry 
to tell him that unlike the superfluities of those 
pious persons his overdoings are all of the damnatory 
description. 

We are next presented with extracts from Gregory 
Nazianzen, and again doomed to suffer under perpetual 
metaphors, from the joint-stock of the saint and his 
translator : not that we would have Mr. Boyd set us 
down as foes to metaphors ; we are only unreasonable 
enough to require that they should have a little mean- 
ing in them ; that they should condescend to be useful 
as well as decorative, and, like the thyrsus of the 
ancients, carry a weapon under their foliage. 

St. Gregory, in the funeral oration upon Caesarius, 
says, that the tears of his mother were 6 subdued by 
philosophy ' Sdfcpvcriv ^TTCO/JLEVOLS <f>l\o<ro<f>la but this 
is too matter-of-fact for Mr. Boyd, who renders it, * her 
tears are dried by the sweet breezes of philosophy ' 
and, in the very next page, the twin metaphors of 
which he is, as usual, delivered, agree, it must be owned, 
rather awkwardly together, and lead us to think he has 
formed his taste for eloquence upon the model of a 
certain noble and diplomatic orator, who is well known 
to deal in this broken ware of rhetoric, such as ' the 
feature, Sir, upon which this question hinges,' &c. &c. 
The following is Mr. Boyd's imitation of that noble 
lord, in what may be called the metaphoroclastic 
style : 

Such, O Csesarius, is my funeral tribute. These are 
the first-fruits of mine unfledged eloquence, of which thou 
hast oft complained that it was buried in the shade. 

Seriously, if this learned gentleman had taken the 



72 THE FATHERS. 

trouble of consulting his Suicerus upon the word 
he would not, we think, have spoiled this truly scriptural 
figure by interpolations so tasteless, and so wholly un- 
authorised by the text. 

About the middle of this peroration we find the 
following passage : 

Will he adorn no more his mind with the theories of 
Plato and of Aristotle, of Pyrrho and Democritus, of Hera- 
clitus and Anaxagoras, and Cleanthes and Epicurus, and I 
know not how many disciples of venerated Academe and 
Stoat 

The original text of these last words is KOI OVK oZS' 
olv rial TWV sic TTJS o-SfjLvfjs (TToas Kal cLKaBij/jilas ' and I 
know not how many from the venerable Porch and the 
Academy.' What could induce Mr. Boyd to translate 
this passage so strangely ? We hope it was only affec- 
tation ; though we own we cannot help fearing in 
spite of all his Greek that, like the worthy French 
gentleman who looked for Aristocracy and Democracy 
in the map, he took these said c Academe and Stoa ' 
for two venerable persons that kept school in Athens. 

We shall next give an extract from St. Gregory's 
Panegyric upon his deceased friend St. Basil, as a speci- 
men not only of Mr. Boyd's best manner of writing, but 
of that unfatherly indifference with which, like a well- 
known bird, he deposits his own offspring in the nest 
of another. The words of the original are simply 
these : 'What joy is there now in our public meetings ? 
what pleasure in our feasts, our assemblies, or our 
churches ? ' which small sum of words this munificent 
translator has, out of his pure bounty, swelled to the 
following considerable amount : 

Alas ! what joy can we now experience in the feast, 
what intercourse of soul in the public meetings ? Whom 



THE FATHERS. 73 

shall we now consult? Shall we seek the next eminent 1 
There are none. He hath left a chasm in the world, and 
there is no one to fill it up. Where then shall we wander, 
and how shall we employ the vacant hours 1 Shall we bend 
our steps into the Forum ? Ah, no ; it was there that Basil 
smiled upon his people. Shall we return into the Church 1 
Ah, no ; it was there that he fed us with the bread of life. 

In the 1 92nd page, he is equally sui profusus ; 
thus 

When I peruse his expositions of the sacred page, I stop 
not at the letter, I rest not at the superficies of the word ; 
but, soaring on renovated wings, I ascend from discovery to 
discovery, from light to light, till I reach the sublimest point, 
and sit enthroned on the riches of Revelation. 

Of which last extraordinary image Mr. Hugh Stuart 
Boyd is sole inventor and proprietor: indeed, not 
-a tenth part of this ' extract ' is to be found in the 
original ; and the saint may be truly said to sink under 
the obligations he owes to his translator. 

St. Gregory is almost the only Father who has 
thought it not beneath his dignity to write verses ; 
there are some by Tertullian ; but the poems under the 
name of Lactantius are, in general, we believe, rejected 
as spurious ; and one of them is supposed to have been 
written by that most jovial of bishops, Venantius For- 
tunatus. 1 The sparkling conceits of Gregory's style 
are much more endurable in verse than in prose ; and 
his similes are sometimes ingenious, if not beautiful. 
But we do not think Mr. Boyd has been very happy in 

1 Whose works, written chiefly * inter pocula ' as he confesses 
in his dedicatory epistle to Pope Gregory may be found in the 
Bibliotlieca Patrum, torn. 8. It is a sad proof of the rapid progress 
of corruption, to find the head of the Christian Church, in a few 
-centuries after the death of Christ, thus openly patronising such 
frivolous profligacy. 



74 THE FATHERS. 

his selections, either from this Father's poetry or the 
prose of St. Basil, whose pathetic remonstrance ' to a 
fallen Virgin ' l would have furnished more favourable 
specimens of saintly eloquence than any composition 
throughout this volume. 

Mr. Boyd's notes consist chiefly of rapturous eulogies 
on the grandeur, brilliancy, and profoundness of his 
originals ; on the ' most super-eminent sublimity ' of 
Plotinus (p. 291); and the 'fascinating' and 'enchant- 
ing' loves of Daphnis and Chloe (passim). He has 
detected, too, some marvellous plagiarisms ; for instance, 
that Milton, in saying ' gloomy as night,' must have 
pilfered from St. Basil, who, it appears, has said ' dark 
as night ; ' unless, as Mr. Boyd candidly and saga- 
ciously adds, ' both Basil and Milton have borrowed the 
idea from Homer's vv/crl SOI/CMS. ' (P. 237.) 

The construction of this gentleman's English is not 
always very easy or elegant : as may appear from such 
sentences as ' cherishing in the minds of men him 
honoured there '(p. 123). 'It thrills with a poetic 
ecstasy, of which the offspring is reflection sapient * 
(p., 240). ' Having made mention of the prayers which 
for demoniacs are offered' (p. 16). But it is time,. 
we feel, to bring this article to a conclusion ; hie locus 
est Somni. If we could flatter ourselves that Mr. 
Boyd would listen to us, we would advise him to betake 
himself as speedily as possible from such writers as his 
Gregories, Cyrils, &c. which can never serve any other 
purpose than that of a vain parade of cumbrous erudi- 
tion to studies of a purer and more profitable nature, 

1 There are several very touching passages throughout this 
letter ; particularly that beginning irov juep cr\ rb 



Tj/xa ; K. T. A. Fenelon says of it, * On ne peut rien voir de plus 
eloquent que son Epitre a une vierge qui etoit tombee ; a mon sens- 
c'est un chef-d'oeuvre.' Sur V Eloquence. 



FRENCH NOVELS. 75 

more orthodox in taste as well as in theology. He will 
find in a few pages of Barrow or Taylor more rational 
piety and more true eloquence than in all the Fathers 
of the Church together ; and if, as we think probable, 
under this better culture, his talents should bring forth 
fairer fruits, we shall hail such a result of our counsels 
with pleasure, and shall even forgive him the many 
personal risks he has made us run, in poising down our 
huge folio saints from their shelves. 



FRENCH NOVELL 

[NOVEMBER 1820.] 

THE present state of France, though full of promise 
with respect to her commercial and political advance- 
ment, is not very favourable to the immediate interests 
of her literature. The minds of a great part of the 
population are still too unsettled for such calm pursuits, 
and to those who study anything politics is so new 
a study, that we cannot wonder it should take the lead 
of all others, and draw most of the thinking spirits of 
the day into its vortex. Accordingly we find that, out 
of the circle of this tempting theme which they pursue 
with all the freshness, as well as the rawness of school- 
boys there is but little original produced in any 

1 Mademoiselle de Tournon, par 1'Auteur ^CAdele de Sctiange* 
2 vols. Paris, 1820. 

[There are several allusions to this article in the third volume 
of Moore's Diary. On October 20, 1820, he writes : * Have apprised 
Jeffrey, through the Longmans, of my intention to review Madame 
de Souza's novel. Two days later (October 22), 'Began the 
review of Madame de Souza,' and on the 29th, ' Finished the 
article on Madame de Souza.' On February 24, 1821, he records 
that Chenevix ' spoke of the exceeding comicality of my transla- 
tion of Lamartine's verses in the last Edinburgh.'] 



76 FRENCH NOVELS. 

department of literature ; and the press is chiefly 
employed in circulating either new editions of long- 
established works, or translations from the popular 
writers of other countries. In the field of poetry, 
where it might be expected that the excitements of 
the Revolution would have called forth something at 
least bold and new, France has been long without even 
a candidate for fame ; and M. Chateaubriand, who has 
written nothing but prose, is the only real poet she at 
present possesses. There has appeared, indeed, within 
the last year, a little work entitled 'Meditations 
Poetiques,' which has been profusely lauded in certain 
circles, but which appears to us a very unsuccessful 
attempt to break through the ancien regime of the 
French Parnassus, and transplant the wild and irregular 
graces of English poetry into the trim parterre of the 
Gallic muse. What this author's notions of sublimity 
are may be collected from the first stanza of one of his 
* Meditations ' : 

Lorsque du Createur la parole feconde, 
Dans une heure fatale, eut enfante le monde 

Des germes du Chaos, 

De son ceuvre imparfaite il detourna sa face, 
Et d'un pied dedaigneux le langant dans 1'espace, 

Rentra dans son repos. 
<Va,' dit-il, etc. etc. 

Which may be thus, not unfairly, translated : 

When the Deity saw what a world he had framed 
From the darkness of Chaos, surprised and ashamed 

He turn'd from his work with disdain ; 
Then gave it a kick, to complete its disgrace, 
Which sent it off, spinning through infinite space, 

And returned to his slumbers again ; 
Saying, ' Go and be/ &c. &c. 



FRENCH NOVELS. 77 

M. Chateaubriand himself, in his interesting work, 
' Les Martyrs,' which contains more bright pictures and 
fanciful thoughts than are to be found, perhaps, in any 
one poem in his language, yet shows, throughout his un- 
lucky descriptions of Hell and of Paradise, how danger- 
ous it is for a Frenchman to meddle with the sublime. 
The following scene (worthy only of the Petites 
Danaides) is supposed to take place during a council 
held by Satan. 

A ce discours de 1'Esprit le plus profondement corrompu 
de Tabime, les Demons applaudirent en tumulte. Le bruit 
decette lamentable joie se prolongea sous les voutes infer- 
nales. Les reprouves crurent que leurs persecuteurs venoient 
d'inventer de nouveaux tourmens. Aussitot ces ames, qui 
n'etoient plus gardees dans leurs buchers, s'echapperent des 
flammes, et accoururent au conseil ; elles trainoient avec 
elles quelque partie de leurs supplices : Tune son suaire 
embrase, 1'autre sa chape de plomb, celle-ci les glagons qui 
pendoient a ses yeux remplis de larmes, celle-la les serpens 
dont elle etoit devoree. Les affreux spectateurs d'un affreux 
Senat prennent leurs rangs dans les tribunes brulantes. 
Satan lui-meme appelle les spectres gardiens des ombres. 
. . . . ' Kemettez/ s'ecrie-t-il, ' ces coupables dans les fers, ou 
craignez que Satan ne vous enchaine avec eux.' 

He is not more fortunate in revealing to us the 
mysteries of the other region. Thus, describing a part 
of the ' Cite de Dieu,' he says 

L& surtout s'accomplit, loin de 1'oeil des Anges, la 
mystere de la Trinite. L'Esprit qui remonte et descend sans 
cesse du Fils au Pere, et du Pere au Fils, s'unit avec eux 
dans ces profondeurs impenetrables. Un triangle de feu 
paroit alors a 1'entree du Saint des Saints : les globes s'ar- 
retent de respect et de crainte, 1'Hosanna des Anges est sus- 
pendu, les milices immortelles ne savent quels seront les 
decrets de l'IJnit6 vivante, elles ne savent si le Trois Fois 
Saint ne va point changer, etc. etc Quand les essences 



78 FRENCH NOVELS. 

primitives se separent, le triangle de feu disparoit : 1'Oracle 
s'entr'ouvre, et Ton aperQoit les trois Puissances. 

After all, however, our own Milton's actual artillery, 
and the 'broad extinguisher' with which Dryden 
furnishes the hand of Omnipotence, for the purpose of 
putting out the fire of London, leaves us but little right 
to reproach M. Chateaubriand, in particular, for this 
disparagement of things divine, this profane familiarity, 
which a too close approach to sacred subjects has, in 
all times and all writings, produced. 

In the dramatic department in addition to those 
countless ' minora sidera ' which twinkle out their gay 
and brief existence on the Boulevards there have 
lately appeared two or three successful tragedies ; and 
though, in ' Marie Stuart,' Queen Elizabeth is repre- 
sented as finding herself at the gates of Fotheringay 
Castle, during the course of a morning's ride from 
London, and Mary, from the same accommodating spot, 
is enabled to catch a view of the mountains of Scotland, 
this tragedy is, upon the whole, of a superior order ; 
and contains verses worthy of the admirable manner 
in which that fine actress, Mademoiselle Duchesnois, 
recites them. 

In novel-writing which brings us more directly to 
the subject of the present article since the death of 
Madame Cottin, and of the inimitable author of c Corinne,' 
as little has been done as in the other walks of literature. 
Madame de Grenlis still writes, but, of late, rather to 
edify than amuse ; and she is at present, we understand, 
most laudably employed in weeding infidelity out of 
the works of Voltaire, and writing Jean-Jacques 
Eousseau all over again. Madame de Souza herself, 
the author of the novel before us, has been, if we 
mistake not, a long time idle. Reposing upon the 
fame which she acquired as Comtesse de Flahaut, this 



FRENCH NOVELS. 79 

is, we believe, the first wreath with which she has 
circled her present name. ' Adele de Senange,' one of 
the earliest of her productions, is the story of a young 
English nobleman, Lord Sydenham, a sort of wandering, 
melancholy philosopher of twenty-two, who, in the act 
of extricating a young lady out of an overturned 
carriage at Paris, is struck with her beauty, and falls 
violently in love with her. In the interval, however, 
between this and their subsequent interview, she 
becomes the wife of M. de Senange, a gouty old gentle- 
man of seventy, who, having once had a platonic 
affection for the young lord's grandmother, and promised 
her, at parting, that if ever chance should throw any 
of her children (including, of course, grandchildren) in 
his way, he would act as a father to them, is delighted 
to take this opportunity of fulfilling a promise made 
half a century before, and invites Lord Sydenham to 
spend the summer at his country-house at Neuilly. 
The natural consequence of this somewhat rash step of 
the kindhearted old gentleman, whose character, indeed, 
throughout, excites much more compassion and respect 
than it is, in general, the lot of these predestines to 
inspire, is an instant and ardent attachment between 
his wife and the young Englishman; and as, in the 
present times, the scale of familiarities and indecorums 
has been measured and graduated by such grave 
authority, that even bishops themselves must now be 
completely learned on the subject, it will not be difficult 
to ascertain at how high a point above zero the tem- 
perature of the following scene is to be rated. ( Adele 
m'ecoutait avec une espece de ravissement. Elle etait 
si emue que, lorsque j'eus cesse de parler, elle laissa 
tomber sa tete sur moi. Nos visages se toucherent ; 
nos larmes se confondirent, mes bras 1'entouraient 
encore. Je la pressai contre mon coeur, en me promet- 



8o FRENCH NOVELS. 

tant interieurement de respecter en elle la femme de 
mon ami.' 

The difficulties and straggles to which such a passion 
gives rise are at length happily terminated by a fit of 
apoplexy, which seizes on the old gentleman on dis- 
covering the secret of the lovers ; and he dies, gene- 
rously enjoining that they should marry each othe^ 
after the decent interval of a year's mourning for his 
loss. This novel is in letters the least popular form, 
perhaps, into which a novel can be thrown. Young 
persons, the chief consumers of such articles generally, 
prefer the straightforward sort of narrative to which 
they have been accustomed from their nurseries ; and 
we confess ourselves young enough to be entirely of 
their opinion. Neither do we very much approve of 
the plan of making heroes or heroines tell their own 
stories. Besides the incompleteness which it necessarily 
entails upon their history leaving them still alive and 
at large for new adventures, after the reader has done 
with them they are generally supposed to be grown 
old when they relate their adventures ; which matter- 
of-fact anticipation, as in the case of Marivaux's 
Marianne, disturbs, at every step, all the illusion and 
interest of the narrative. Instead of accompanying, in 
fancy, this young creature through her first moments 
of bloom and ignorance, we are continually reminded 
of the wise and withered personage she is now become ; 
and when, describing her having held out her hand to 
some admirer, she adds in a parenthesis, ' et je 1'avais 
belle,' this unfortunate past tense throws the occurrence 
so very far back, that we cannot help being disenchanted 
of a considerable part of our interest in it. 

' Emilie et Alphonse,' another of Madame de Souza's 
novels, is also in letters ; and, in a similar manner, 
turns upon the misfortunes of a young lady, who un- 



FRENCH NOVELS. 81 

luckily marries the wrong man, being violently and 
irrecoverably in love with another. It displays, like 
all that the fair author has written, an acute knowledge 
of that part of the world which is called society. The 
follies even of her own sex assume a grace and charm 
in her description of them, and their coquetry becomes 
of that kind which a French poet describes 

La coquetterie 
S'epure en passant par son cceur. 

The process by which an innocent young married 
woman may be transmuted into a heartless lady of 
fashion (a result like that at which Lavoisier arrived 
in reducing diamonds to carbon), is developed with 
much skill in the experiments of Madame d'Artigue 
upon the character of Emily who, having committed 
the faute of forgetting her husband, is near falling 
into the crime of forgetting her lover also. She is, 
however, saved in time from utter worthlessness by a 
circumstance which hardly would have occurred to a 
male philosopher as likely to produce such a seasonable 
reformation. The accidental smell of a little fan of 
sandal- wood her lover having once had a little walk- 
ing-stick of the same odorous material so completelv 
dissipates, at a whiff, all the collected fumes of vanity, 
that, bidding adieu to the rouge, flounces, and furbelows 
of this world, she takes to love, sentiment, and ' mousse- 
line blanche ' again. She is not, however, in the end, 
so lucky as Adele de Senange ; for, though the lover 
performs his duty, by wounding the husband mortally 
in a duel, the husband, at the same moment, returns 
the compliment, and poor Emily is obliged to end her 
days in a convent, without either. 

We cannot help considering this sort of stories, 
where married ladies are brought into such unconjugal 

G 



82 FRENCH NOVELS. 

situations, as very perilous things, in every sense of the 
word ; yet female writers have always been fond of 
them, from the Eoyal Intrigues of Madame la Fayette, 
down to Madame Cottin's loves of the Manufacturers 
in Claire d'Albe. We remember, too, some years ago, 
a novel by one of our own countrymen, in which the 
heroine (Rhoda, we believe, she is called) loves one 
man, marries a second, and intrigues with a third 

* au reste, charmante personne ' and having at length 
driven her husband, who is, as usual, the best sort of 
man in the world, to blow out his brains, retires from 
her capacity of heroine, at the end, upon a handsome 
independence of three thousand a year. 

The story of * Eugenie et Mathilde ' is, perhaps, 
more artfully constructed than any that Madame de 
Souza has hitherto produced. The time of the events 
is during the first years of the French Revolution ; and 
the struggles of an uncloistered nun with her vow of 
singleness, afford, if not the chief, the most touching 
source of its interest. The characters of the three 
sisters the prim, rigid Ernestine, ' que des quinze ans 
on eut voulu rajeunir ' the capricious, but affectionate 
and natural Mathilde, who, when expostulated with on 
any of her faults, thinks it enough to answer gaily ' je 
suis comme cela ' and the gentle and sensitive young 
nun, Eugenie, whose sacrifices to another world are 
enhanced by her susceptibility of the best affections of 
this all these various portraits are touched with a 
delicacy, a discrimination, and a truth, which throw an 
air of perfect reality over the painful story to which 
they belong. 

There yet remains to be noticed, in this brief retro- 
spect of Madame de Souza's works, two other novels, 

* Charles et Marie,' and ' Eugene de Rothelin,' in the 
latter of which, by-the-by, the wrong halves of the 



FRENCH NOVELS. 83 

Androgynes are again brought together. But we have 
already dwelt so much longer than was necessary upon 
books which everyone has read, that we may now turn 
our readers into 'fresh fields and pastures new,' by 
giving some account of the last, and, we rather think, 
the best of this lady's productions, ' Mademoiselle de 
Tournon.' 

The story is founded upon a few pages in the Me- 
moires de Marguerite de Valois, which relate the melan- 
choly death of the young Helen e de Tournon, daugh- 
ter of the celebrated woman of that name, who twice 
1 defended the town of Tournon against the Protestants. 
This heroic lady was the dame d'honneur of Margue- 
rite ; and the character of ' femme un peu rude et 
terrible,' which the lively Queen has given her, is 
turned skilfully to account in working up the interest 
of the novel. Having forced her eldest daughter into 
a marriage of convenance with M. Balanpon, whom the 
King of Spain had lately appointed governor of the 
Comte de Bourgogne, she readily accedes to the request 
of Helene, at this period entering into her seventeenth 
year, to be allowed to accompany her sister to the Pays- 
Bas. From the following short sketch of M. Balancon 
it will be seen that Madame de Souza possesses, as an 
observer of character, what Cicero in a painter calls the 
* oculum erudituin.' 

Monsieur de Balancon etait parvenu, seulement en re- 
spectant les petits devoirs de la societe ; a faire donner le 
nom d'une vertu a chacuri de ses defauts. Son avarice e"tait 
nominee de 1'ordre ; sa fausset6 paraissait de la prudence. 
II prouvait ce qu'une longue observation du monde apprend : 
c'est que la jeunesse, avec un peu de serieux, obtient des 
e"gards, inspire de la confiance ; comme les vieillards, en se 
montrant parfois indulgents et faciles, passent pour bons, 
quelque exigeants qu'ils soient dans leur interieur. 

o 2 



84 FRENCH NOVELS. 

M. Balanpon has two brothers, Leopold and Auguste, 
whose situation and dispositions will be best learned 
from the account which he himself gives of his family 
affairs, in one of those communicative moods which, 
providentially for the reader, generally seize some 
person or other at the beginning of every novel. 

Ma mere avait deux freres. L'aine possedait, comme il 
est d'usage, tons les biens de sa maison ; le second avait ete 
destine a 1'Eglise. Get aine mqurut peu apres le mariage de 
sa soeur avec mon pere. Sa fortune passa done & son jeune 
frere, qui, fort heureusement pour nous, etait dejii engage 
dans les ordres. Lorsqu'il parvint a 1'electorat de Treves, 
il se plaisait a repeter qu'il nous regardait comme ses 
heritiers. 

Ma mere en mourant recommanda a mon oncle Auguste 
mon second frere, aujourd'hui marquis de Yarambon. 
L'electeur de Treves voulut disposer de lui comme s'il etait 
son fils. Mon pere eut la faiblesse d'y consentir ; et un 
beau jour 1'enfant partit avec lui. Nous restames avec mon 
pere. Mais depuis ce moment Leopold et moi nous fume& 
regardes par mon oncle comme des collateraux incommodes, 
Toute son immense fortune etait reservee pour mon frere ; 
il lui accorda meme une pension considerable. Auguste, 
loin d'economiser pour augmenter le patrimoine de la 
famille, dispersait en pretendus actes de bienfaisance tout ce 
que mon oncle lui donnait. Yoila ce que j'appelle une 
premiere folie serieuse. 

L'electeur 1'a fait elever pom* 6tre son coadjuteur et lui 
succeder. Cependant, lorsque monsieur Auguste a eu vingt 
ans, non-seulement il n'a point voulu entrer dans les ordres, 
mais il a refuse positivement de prendre 1'habit ecclesiastique, 
declarant qu'il ne se soumettrait 4 la volonte de mon pere 
et aux desirs de mon oncle que lorsqu'il aurait vingt-cinq 
ans. Et voila ce que j'appelle une seconde folie tres- 
serieuse ; car, en attendant cette epoque, Telecteur peut 
mourir, et monsieur mon frere rester avec toutes les belles 
phrases qu'il nous debite : ' de ne consentir a ])rendre cet 



FRENCH NOVELS. 85 

etat qu'apres en avoir bien connu les devoirs; de ne se 
resigner k sacrifier son independance, sa liberte, qu'apres 
avoir eu la certitude que ses regrets ne seront pas plus forts 
que sa raison.' 

Pendant qu'il se refuse a assurer les avantages de sa 
situation, a prendre 1'habit qui prouverait du moins qu'il 
se destine a 1'eglise, mon tres-cher frere se soumet a la vie 
severe et retiree qu'elle prescrit. J'appelle cela encore une 
folie si serieuse qu'elle m'en fait rire. Auguste me parait 
un homme au bord d'un precipice, n'osant ni le franchir ni 
s'en detourner. 

After this interesting 'note of preparation,' the 
young Marquis de Varambon arrives at the chateau ; 
and his first interview with the heroine is most happily 
imagined and described. She had been walking through 
the apartments prepared for his reception, with an old 
housekeeper of the family, who had loved and watched 
over him from his childhood, and who was now busy in 
ornamenting the rooms with all his favourite flowers. 
After showing her the library, whose ' meubles de ve- 
lours noir, sans aucune broderie,' presented a severe and 
melancholy contrast to the flowers which this good 
old dame placed among them 

Elle conduisit Helene dans un salon qui tenait a la 
bibliotheque, et, prenant mademoiselle de Tournon par la 
main, elle la plaga devant le portrait d'une femme de la plus 
grande beaute. 'C'est madame, c'est ma bonne et chere 
maitresse,' dit Genevieve ; ' la voila, comme elle etait, toujours 
environnee de fleurs.' En effet, le peintre 1'avait representee 
pres d'une table, sur laquelle il avait place un vase d'albatre 
rempli de jQeurs, et entoure d'une guirlande de roses. Gene- 
vieve dit, en montrant une table qui se trouvait au milieu 
du salon : * Voila ce vase d'albatre, cette table, qui ont servi 
de modele au peintre ; mais les fleurs et madame n'y sont 
plus ! ' Helene demanda si ce vase etait cher a monsieur 



86 FRENCH NOVELS. 

de Yarambon? ' Tout ce que madame affectionnait lui est 
precieux.' 

Alors Helene se mit a placer des fleurs dans ce vase ; 
elle tachait de les arranger comme elle les voyait dans le 
tableau ; ensuite elle commena la guirlande. Daine Gene- 
vieve la regardait travailler avec une sorte de satisfaction ; 
mais tout-a-coup, revenant a elle-m6me, elle lui dit : ' Ne 
craignez-vous pas que cette imitation ne lui cause plus de 
peine que de plaisir 1 ' ' Yous avez bien raison,' repondit 
Helene. ' Rappeler une perte irreparable, c'est renouveler 
une douleur.' Comme efirayee, elle rejeta sur la table ce qui 
lui restait de fleurs, laissa sa guirlande & moitie finie, et, se 
levant, elle demeura pensive devant ce tableau qui lui offrait 
la jeunesse, la beaute, les fleurs et la mort. Elle s'oubliait 
dans ses reflexions melancoliques, lorsqu'un cri echappd 
a dame' Gene vie ve la fit retourner. Elle fut inter dite en 
voyant pres d'elle monsieur de Yarambon occupe a la con- 
siderer. Son extreme ressemblance avec sa mere le lui fit 
reconnaitre. Embarrassee d'avoir ete surprise par lui dans 
son appartement, elle se troubla, n'osa lui parler, et se mit 
a fuir, oubliant meme de le saluer. 

Love follows of course ; and the varieties of its 
progress and effects, in two such differently constituted 
natures the reserved, meditative, but jealous and im- 
petuous, M. de Yarambon, and the gentle, timid, but 
devoted and unchangeable Helene are denned through- 
out with all that delicate power of analysis which women 
seem instinctively to possess on such subjects. A visit 
with which M. Balanpon is honoured by Don John of 
Austria, whom his brother Philip II. has just sent to 
take the government of the Low Countries, gives the 
first development to that fatal passion of jealousy, 
which is attended at last with such tragical conse- 
quences to the young lovers. A ball takes place at the 
chateau, on the arrival of the Prince, from which the 
sanctity of the line of life marked out for him imposes 



FRENCH NOVELS. 87 

upon M. de Varambon the necessity of absenting him- 
self; and there is considerable fancy, as well as pathos, 
in the description of his solitary sufferings, within hear- 
ing of the gaieties by which his mistress is surrounded. 

Revenu chez lui, il y etait poursuivi par le bruit des 
violons. L'appartexnent ou Ton dansait etait au-dessus du 
sien : tons les pas retentissaient. II est inquiet de ce qui 
se passe dans le salon ; il n'a pas un instant de repos ; il fait 
appeler Genevieve, et, oubliant toute prudence, il lui dit : 
' Ma bonne, ma chere amie, allez voir le bal ; sachez ce que 
fait mademoiselle de Tournon.' ' Elle danse, monsieur; j'en 
viens.' ' Avec qui 1 ' demande-t-il en tremblant. II le pre- 
voyait, il le savait, et il le demandait ! Esperait-il une 
reponse qui put calmer sa jalousie, passion cruelle dont il 
devait tant souffrir ? 

' Mademoiselle de Tournon danse avec le prince/ repond 
Genevieve ; ' il ne voit qu'elle, n'a danse qu'avec elle ; c'est 
la reine du bal ! ' ' Comment regoit-elle ses attentions 1 ' 
reprend-il vivement. ' Sans les remarquer ; elle est aussi 
modeste que belle.' 

Les danseurs se faisaient toujours entendre ; monsieur 
de Yarambon aurait pu compter la mesure de leurs pas. Ce 
nouveau supplice lui devient insupportable ; il s'enfuit dans 
le pare. Ces allees sombres, cette nuit paisible, ne pouvaient 
le rendre a lui-meme. Les yeux constamment fixes sur les 
fenetres du chateau, il voyait des ombres fugitives se dessiner 
sur le plafond de la salle ; des plumes agitees se montraient, 
disparaissaient, suivant les mouvements animes des dan- 
seuses : il ne cherchait qu'une seule femme, et ne pouvait la 
distinguer. 

Tout-a-coup il vit arriver des domestiques, s'empressant 
d'allumer des lampions qui ^clairerent les jar dins. Les 
chiffres de dom Juan brillaient en verres de couleur. Mon- 
sieur de Yarambon revint dans son appartement plus vite 
encore qu'il ne 1'avait quitte. II eteignit ses lumieres, ne 
voulant point etre vu du dehors ; et, dans 1'obscuiite, attach6 
a sa fenetre, il regardait ce qui se passait dans le pare. Au- 



88 FRENCH NOVELS. 

dessus de sa tete, la musique, la gaiete, le tourbillon du bal ; 
devant lui, 1'eclat des lumieres : ces jardins, brillants de 
chiffres odieux; lui, seul, dans le silence, dans 1 'ombre, et 
plus agitee que personne. 

On etait dans les plus beaux jours de 1'annee. Bientot 
il vit plusieurs femmes qui etaient sorties du bal pour venir 
se promener dans les jardins. Dom Juan parut, donnant le 
bras aux deux soeurs. Monsieur de Yarambon ne se posse- 
dait plus. Mais combien il fut touche de voir Helene se 
retourner plusieurs fois et regarder son appartement. Elle 
a 1'air triste : elle pense done a lui ! et des larmes s'echap- 
paient de ses yeux sans qu'il les sentit couler. 

Apres quelques pas, Helene quitta dom Juan, et revint 
lentement du cote du chateau. Elle s'arreta devant cette 
fenetre ou monsieur de Yarambon venait d'eprouver des 
angoisses si cruelles. Qu'il etait emu ! le bal, dom Juan, 
les chifires importuns, avaient disparu; il n'y avait plus 
qu'Helene de presente a sa vue. II se dit qu'elle sera heu- 
reuse dans la retraite ; ils y vivront uniquement Tun pour 
1'autre ; elle se contentera de la modeste fortune qu'il peut 
lui offrir. amour ! toi seul peux peindre ces orages du 
coaur, qu'un rien fait naitre, qu'un mouvement dissipe ! Le 
son de la musique, des pas legers, les ondulations de ces 
plumes flottantes, avaient bouleverse son ame : un regard 
le calme ! Deja il ne redoute plus 1'avenir, et passe le 
reste de la nuit a esperer une felicite parfaite. 

He declares at length to M. Balancon the resolution 
which he has formed to renounce the religious profession 
for which he was destined; a scene of altercation 
ensues between the brothers ; and M. Balancon, dis 
covering that an attachment for Mademoiselle de 
Tournon is the cause of a step so ruinous to the worldly 
interests of the family, writes such a letter to Madame 
de Tournon as determines that proud and rigid woman 
not only to refuse her consent to a marriage between the 
young persons, but to recall her daughter instantly to 



FRENCH NOVELS. 89 

Paris. Thither M. de Varambon secretly pursues her ; 
and a new source of fuel to his unreasonable jealousy 
presents itself in the person of M. de Souvre, the chief 
favourite of Henri III., who becomes deeply enamoured 
of Mademoiselle de Tournon ; and whose respectful atten- 
tions, mistaken by her for the assiduities of friendship, 
are received with all the favour and gratitude which 
her esteem for his very amiable character dictates. The 
unlucky appearances arising from such an intercourse, 
and the effects which they produce upon the inflammable 
disposition of M. de Varambon, are delineated through a 
succession of animated scenes and incidents, to which we 
should ill do justice by such a skeleton abstract with- 
out either the colouring of style or the life of detail as 
the limits allowed for this subject afford. The conclusion 
of the story is peculiarly affecting; and the description 
of M. Varambon's feelings, on seeing the cold remains 
of the innocent and faithful girl, whose heart his unjust 
suspicions had broken, is as simply and finely done as 
.anything of the kind with which we are acquainted. 

Us arrivent enfin a Liege. Les rues sont encombrees 
d'un peuple immense qui les arrete. Us voient de loin un 
convoi qui s'approche. Le char funebre est couvert d'un 
drap blanc et argent, autour duquel sont attachees des cou- 
ronnes de roses blanches. Monsieur de Varambon fremit 
et serre la main de son frere; ses levres tremblantes ne 
pauvent prononcer une parole. Son air egare attire 1'atten- 
tion d'un vieillard qui precedait le cortege. II passe en 
disant : ' Pauvre mademoiselle de Tournon ! ' Monsieur de 
Varambon tombe sans connaissance. On 1'emporte dans 
une maison voisine, ou il reste plusieurs heures evanoui. 
Malheureux ! quel reveil 1'attend ! 

Le convoi s'avance lentement vers 1'eglise. Les chants 
religieux demandent au ciel la paix d'une autre vie, pour 
celle qui n'a connu de ce monde que le malheur et la souf- 
france. 



90 FRENCH NOVELS. 

Yers le soir monsieur de Yarambon revient a lui en 
jetant des cris aflreux. II appelle Helene, ne pent se per- 
suader qu'il 1'a perdue ; il la demande a son frere, le supplie, 
le conjure de la lui rendre ; il veut la revoir encore. . . . 
II s'echappe, et Leopold, ne pouvant 1'arreter, le suit. Us 
arrivent a 1'eglise. La foule est dispersee. Les funerailles 
ne devant avoir lieu que le lendemain, Helene est deposee 
dans une chapelle ardente. Cette lumiere le guide. Un 
pretre, a genoux, recite des prieres. Monsieur de Yarambon 
se jette au pied du cercueil. 

Le pretre, que sa presence etonne, que son desespoir 
effraie, regarde avec inquietude Leopold, qui lui dit : ' II 
devait etre son epoux.' L'homme pieux et charitable le 
plaint, et s'eloigne pour ne point contraindre la douleur. 

L'infortune, aneanti, prosterne contre terre, craint de 
relever sa tete coupable, et ne cesse de repeter qu'il 1'aime, 
qu'il l'aimait, qu'il va la suivre. . . . Enfin il ose elever ses- 
yeux jusqu'a ce visage insensible qu'aucun voile ne lui cache 
encore. Ses sanglots, ses cris, font retentir 1'eglise. ... 
Malheureux qui as brise le cceur qui n'existait que pour toi ! 
.... II joint ses mains, pleure, s'accuse, demande a Dieu 
qu'un instant, un seul instant, leur soit accorde ! qu'elle le 
revoie encore ! et puis tous deux mourir ! * Qu'elle sache 
que je 1'aimais ! que je 1'adorais ! ' crie-t-il en s'adressant au 
ciel. . . . Sa tete se perd; il la regarde, il attend, il ecoute. 
. . . Le silence de la mort lui repond ! . . . Un sombre 
egarement est dans ses yeux ; il etend ses bras et s'ecrie : 
' Ne m'entendra-t-elle done jamais ? jamais 1 ' Et les voutes 
de 1'eglise rep6terent : i JAMAIS ! ' 

The personages in this novel are almost all histori- 
cal ; and the skill with which their real characters, as 
well as that of the gallant, superstitious, and cruel 
court to which they belonged, are made to serve the 
purposes of the authors fiction, without deviating in 
the slightest degree from their original and recorded 
peculiarities, is the more remarkable, from its rarity 
in works of this kind, where, as in the portraits of dis- 



FRENCH NOVELS. 91 

tinguished persons in print-shops, the name is often 
the only part of the original that is preserved. Madame 
de Tournon is here exactly what the Queen, whom she 
served, has painted her ; M. de Souvre, though turned 
into a sentimental lover (that common fate of all states- 
men, heroes, and philosophers, that fall into the hands 
of French writers, and which Eacine would not suffer 
even Achilles himself to escape), is still the same 
sensible and amiable man of the world who was, as 
history tells us, the favourite of so many kings ; the 
brilliant Don John of Austria acts his part in the novel 
without losing any of that splendour with which Strada 
and our own Hume have invested him ; and, though 
Madame de Souza has had the good taste not to distin- 
guish her facts from her fancies by pedantic reference 
to authorities, it is still satisfactory to trace the ac- 
curacy of her allusions, and to observe how, in this- 
wedlock between history and fiction, she has contrived 
to preserve all the wild beauties of the latter, without 
sacrificing to them any of the masculine dignity of the 
former. This is particularly remarkable in the scene 
between Don John and the astrologer (a scene of con- 
siderable effect throughout), in which the secret treaty 
entered into by this Prince with the Due de Cruise, and 
his project to carry off and espouse our Mary Queen of 
Scots, are introduced so as to give the stamp of authen- 
ticity to fiction, and make the fairy money of fancy 
pass current as real. 

We know but two works with which this novel can 
properly be compared the Princesse de Cleves of 
Madame la Fayette, and the Mademoiselle de Clermont 
of Madame de Genlis. The great merit of the former 
in addition to its being the first of the kind is that 
insinuating naivete of detail, that uniform flow of events 
which, like monotony in music, wins more upon the 



92 FRENCH NOVELS. 

ear and heart than all the transitions and surprises that 
the most fertile fancy can invent. The conclusion, 
however, is unsatisfactory that a lover should ever 
cease to love, however common in life, is against all 
the established rules of romance. The story of Made- 
moiselle de Clermont is one of those which young 
people will read from generation to generation. The 
charms of the style, the unity of the interest, and the 
association of both its pleasant and melancholy scenes 
with the beautiful forest and gardens of Chantilly, all 
combine to give it a degree of popularity which few of 
its most pretending competitors have attained. With- 
out entering into any formal comparison between these 
two celebrated works and the novel before us, we shall 
merely say that, in our opinion, it is in every respect 
worthy to take its station by their side. We have 
more weighty matters, however, to settle with our 
French neighbours, and cannot now afford to dwell 
longer on this light prelude. 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 1 

[JUNE 1826.] 

THE author of this work published, some time since, 
a successful jeu d'esprit, under the title of ' L'Art de 
faire des Dettes,' an art in which the people of most 
countries are becoming now as great proficients as their 
governments. A long experience of the blessings of a 
National Debt is sure to bring private debts into 

1 Mcewrs Administratives, pow faire suite aux Observations siir 
les Mceurs et les Usages Frangais au Commencement du XIX<* Siccle. 
2 tomes I2mo. Paris, 1825. 

[In his Diary of June 1826, Moore says: ' Wrote an article for 
the Edinburgh Review upon a trifling French work, Mceurs Admitiis- 
tratives: Vol. v. pp. 87, 88.] 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 93 

fashion ; and when a judge from the bench as was the 
case some time since in England promulgates the 
merits and advantages of owing on a grand scale, it is 
but natural that individuals should try the efficacy of 
the practice on a small one. ' I would beseech you,' 
says Panurge, ' to leave me some few centuries of debt 
if it were for nothing but the exercise of my mind ; ' 
and English politicians would be, perhaps, equally at a 
loss for such exercise, if there were, as Panurge ex- 
presses it, ' any parcel abated from off the principal 
sums they owe.' The same great advocate for borrowing 
and lending adduces another argument in favour of the 
practice, of which the books of some bankrupts in the 
late crisis would afford no unapt illustration. ' Against 
the opinion of most philosophers, that of nothing 
ariseth nothing, and without having bottomed on so 
much as that which is called the First Matter, did I 
out of nothing become such a maker and creator, that I 
have created what ? a gay number of fair and jolly 
creditors. And creditors, I will maintain it, even to 
the very fire itself, are fair and goodly creatures.' 

The work before us is more elaborate, and therefore 
less amusing, than 'L'Art de faire des Dettes.' In 
extending himself beyond the limits of a brochure into 
two respectable volumes the author has committed that 
sort of mistake which success is most apt to generate. 
Writers are too often tempted thus to outgrow their 
strength ; the much-lauded sonneteer straggles forth- 
with into epics, and the epigrammatist, overpaid for 
his point, becomes voluminous and dull. This work, 
however, is by no means deficient in liveliness ; and 
the object of the writer being to give an insight into 
the interior of public offices in France to sketch the 
manners and modes of life of official persons, and throw 
a light upon all the various wheels, from the prime 



94 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

minister down to the clerk, by which the machine of 
government in that country is carried on his book 
derives an interest, independent of its pleasantry, from 
the curiosity with which everything relating to French 
politics is sought after at present. 

It is, indeed, a matter of no inconsiderable interest 
to watch the progress of the excitement that now 
pervades all France, and to speculate as to the probable 
consequences that may result from it. On the great 
question whether our neighbours are ever likely to 
attain rational liberty the symptoms at present ex- 
hibited among them afford quite as much grounds 
for hope as for fear. The magnificent subscription for 
the family of General Foy, the enthusiasm which has 
spread through all classes in favour of the Greeks, to 
assist whose cause there are Comites Philhelleniques 
established in almost every town ; the sensitive alarm 
with which such events as the disgrace of M. Montlosier 
and the appointment of the Bishop of Strasbourg to be 
tutor to the young Prince are viewed these, and many 
other such indications of popular feeling, seem to prove 
that there is a right spirit abroad through France, and 
that the people take that lively interest in public affairs 
which alone insures the honesty and efficacy of a 
government, by making every man in the community 
a sentinel on its movements. 

In the general courage and fairness of their legal 
tribunals one of which has been honest enough to 
draw down upon itself a rebuke from Eoyalty, while 
another, in the case of the descendants of La Chalotais 
against the Etoile, has left a decision upon record 
worthy of the pages of Fenelon we find that best and 
only pledge against the abuse of laws which lies in the 
integrity and impartiality of those who administer 
them. The sympathy with which the Chamber of 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 95 

Peers has lately entered ihto the views of the people 
upon a subject, too, where it could be least expected 
from them, the rights of primogeniture speaks strongly 
for the liberal spirit of that body ; as the eloquence 
which they displayed on that occasion, and the triumph 
they gained, speak no less strongly for their talents 
and power. The speeches, or rather essays, delivered 
by MM. Pasquier, Mole, de Barante, and de Broglie, 
exhibit a clearness and strength of argument, a range 
and depth of views, which but few of our noble 
thinkers could rival. From the discourse of the Due 
de Broglie which, it is no mean praise to say, was 
the best that this important occasion called forth we 
cannot resist the temptation of giving the following 
extract, which, besides affording a specimen of the 
noble orator's powers, is interesting, as containing the 
bold and candid opinions of so enlightened a foreigner 
upon the institutions of Great Britain : 

C'est aussi la ma reponse a d'autres orateurs, dont 
j'honore les vues, mais dont je ne partage point les chimeres ; 
a d'autres orateurs qui, eblouis et comme enchantes par 
1'exemple d'un pays voisin, revent en ce moment la possibi- 
lite d'instituer en France, non pas une noblesse de cour ou 
de province, mais une aristocratie libre et fiere, puissante et 
majestueuse, protectrice eclairee des libertes populaires. 

Les temps en sont passes. Desormais toutes les classes 
de la nation fran^aise sont egalement e'mancipees ; que Ton 
tourmente la population en tout sens, on n'en fera plus sortir 
ni clients ni patrons ; on n'en fera plus sortir que des magis- 
trats et des citoyens. Si c'est la un mal ou un bien, je 
laisse chacun le decider selon qu'il Ten tend : quant a moi, j'en 
suis fier, et j'en rends graces au ciel. II y a des choses 
d'ailleurs qui ne se font ni a la main ni apres coup. 

Oui, je le sais, le droit de primogeniture existe en Angle- 
terre ; il y existe plus dur, plus injuste cent fois que la loi 
actuelle ne nous le propose ; tous les bien-fonds vont a 



96 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

1'aine, tons sans exception : les puines n'ont de ressources 
qu'une Eglise riche jusqu'a la profusion, jusqu'au scandale ; 
que 1'armee, ou les grades s'achetent et se vendent ; que 
des sinecures sans nombre et sans mesure \ qu'une foule de 
postes lucratifs dans les colonies ; que 1'Inde, ou si long- 
temps cinquante millions d'hommes ont ete livres en pature 
a la rapacite des exacteurs. Oui, je le sais, la distinction des 
rangs en Angleterre est conservee avec une exactitude poin- 
tilleuse et pedantesque; le gouvernement depuis plusieurs 
siecles y appartient a peu pres exclusivement a un petit 
nombre de grandes families, qui, rangees sous des etendards 
differents, se disputent et se transmettent le pouvoir, selon 
le vent de 1'opinion qui domine ; tous les details de Tad- 
ministration sont devolus a une vaste corporation de gentils- 
hommes, qui, sous les noms de juges de paix, de grands jurys, 
font tout, decident de tout, disposent de tout gratuitement, 
j'en tombe d'accord, mais aussi anranchis de tout controle, 
exempts de toute responsabilite positive. Et pourtant j'ai 
hate de le declarer hautement : quelque prejuge qui s'eleve 
au premier abord contre un tel ordre de choses, 1'aristocratie 
anglaise honore 1'humanite ; c'est un imposant phenomene 
dans le monde et dans 1'histoire ; associee de tout temps aux 
interets du peuple, elle n'a jamais cess6 de revendiquer les 
droits du moindre citoyen aussi courageusement que les 
siens propres ; elle a ouvert la route ou la nation marche 
aujourd'hui; elle a coui-u les memes chances, defendu la 
meme cause, combattu le meme combat. Depuis cent cin- 
quante ans que la victoire est gagnee, elle n'a ni devie ni 
degenere ; elle a sans cesse accueilli dans son sein toutes les 
superiorites qui se sont elevees ; une heureuse emulation, 
digne fruit des institutions libres qu'elle a fondees, s'est 
maintenue dans les hauts rangs ; 1'aristocratie anglaise est 
encore aujourd'hui 1'elite de 1' Angleterre, de cette Angle- 
terre elle- meme qui tient le premier rang parmi les peuples 
libres. 

Another strong ground of hope for the political ad- 
vancement of our neighbours is the activity and talent 
of their periodical press. It is impossible for a nation 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 97 

to go a-sleep over its liberties, that has such daily 
flappers in its ears as the Courrier Fran$ais and the 
Journal des Debats, the latter of which is, perhaps, 
the best conducted journal not excepting even our 
own admirable Times in Europe. The conformation, 
too, and character of the Opposition which these two 
papers represent, is of a nature particularly favourable 
to the diffusion of sound constitutional views con- 
sisting, as it does, of two distinct parties, one of which 
supports the Charte upon monarchical principles, while 
the other maintains it upon more democratic and re- 
volutionary grounds. A rational balance of opinion is 
thus preserved between them, and the public mind 
saved from either of those extremes to which an 
Opposition purely Koyalist, or purely Democratic, might 
force it. 

To these promising circumstances in the political 
condition of France there are others, of a nature at 
least equally discouraging, to be opposed. Among 
these must be reckoned a no less essential consideration 
than the character of the people themselves, whose 
appetite for novelty, fed as it has been so abundantly 
for the last half-century, will hardly allow them to rest 
at the right point when they have found it, and whose 
readiness to be excited by trifles requires a considerable 
deduction to beonade from the value and trustworthiness 
of their zeal upon important concerns. When we see 
enthusiasm pouring itself out upon frivolous objects 
like the thunder-cloud parting with its contents to a 
kite we lose one of the tests by which its importance 
on affairs of more moment can be estimated. The reve- 
ries of Animal Magnetism and Somnambulism have 
already, we believe, supplanted in Paris the disquisi- 
tions on the droit d'ainesse, and the cry against the 
Jesuits ; and the cures performed by young ladies in 

H 



98 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

their sleep (the magnetic power enabling them, in 
that state, to see into the interior of their patients l ) 
have excited sensation and discussion enough to attract 
to them the solemn notice of the Academic de Medecine. 
4 Faire serieusement les choses fdvoles,' is nearly as 
much a characteristic of the French now as it was in 
the days of Montesquieu ; and, from this habit of theirs 
of doing foolish things with a grave face, we should be 
in great danger of being deceived, were we to measure 
their sense of the importance of a business by the 
seriousness and earnestness with which they set about 
it. This sort of fantastic solemnity is particularly ob- 
servable in those writers among them who set up for 
broachers of new systems or theories. M. Azais, who, 
satisfactorily to himself, proves that Man is but a 
fortuitous excrescence, a mere ' developpement spontane 
d'une mousse ' M. Beyle, who sees, in the working of 
the human passions, nothing more than a process of 
crystallisation, and who would say of a young lady, when 
she first falls in love, that ' her heart begins to crystal- 
lise,' M. de Monville, who insists that the world, 
and all it contains, is composed of four different sorts 
of little triangular-pyramidical-shaped molecules, with 
four equal faces, all these sages, and many more 
of the same profundity that might be mentioned, 
maintain their respective theories with a gravity and 

1 This miraculous application of the powers of magnetism to 
medical purposes has, of course, superseded the eau magnetisee of 
MM. Mesmer and Deleuze, which used formerly to work such won- 
ders. Some of these somnambulists have equally the power of 
scrutinising their own interior ; and M. Puyse'gur, one of the great 
upholders of the mystery, gives an account of a girl who, during her 
magnetic slumber, saw four large worms gnawing her heart. She 
prescribed for herself accordingly ; and, as M. Puysegur assures us, 
got rid of the worms. It is only among a people long worked upon 
by priestcraft that such juggling as this could have the smallest 
chance of success. 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 99 

earnestness which show the importance that vanity can 
attach to its own whims, and prove that what would 
pass for but an indifferent joke in England, may, in 
the hands of an ingenious Frenchman, be promoted 
into philosophy. Almost a natural consequence of this 
habit of treating trifles seriously is the far more 
dangerous error of viewing important matters as trifles ; 
and, when we see so many instances of both these 
tendencies among our neighbours, it is impossible not 
to fear that the same false standard may be applied by 
them to politics, that the habit of extracting self- 
glorification from everything (like the projector of 
Laputa, who extracted sunbeams out of cucumbers) 
may incapacitate them from understanding real glory, 
and that the same vanity which, at one time, makes 
such parade of the shadow of liberty, may, at another 
time, be equally ready, for its own triumph, to sacrifice 
the substance. 

Another great obstacle to the advancement of free 
principles in France is that revived spirit of fanaticism 
of which the Court is the soul and centre, and which, 
by bringing into play some of the worst features of the 
Catholic faith, draws down disgrace upon this religion, 
both in France and elsewhere, and not only embarrasses 
the friends of liberty in that country, but affords its 
enemies a new pretext for oppressing their fellow- 
countrymen in this. We have no doubt that the 
greater portion of the intelligent people of France re- 
gard these advances of bigotry and Ultramontanism l 

1 In the controversy, to which this state of things has given 
rise, between the Ultramontanists on one side and the champions 
of the liberties of the Galilean Church on the other, we find not a 
few instances of that unfairness which is so common a charac- 
teristic of theological disputes. For example, Bossuet, in his 
Defence of the Orthodoxy of the Galilean Church, has said, that, 
even if the Declaration of 1682 were out of the question, the prin- 

H 2 



ioo FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

with disgust. But the spirit of Jesuitism, once put in 
motion, is not so easily checked ; like the landcrab y 
it will make its way through all obstacles ; and a people 
who see established among them, under the sanction of 
the Government and the Church, a Society l whose stock 
in trade consists of Plenary Indulgences, and whose 
members are required, as their sole qualification, to re- 
peat punctually ' a Pater and Ave par jourj must be 
indebted more to their own good sense than to the 
wisdom or good intentions of their Government, if they 
do not retrograde in freedom even faster than they have 
advanced till, like their rulers, living only in the 
past, they come to resemble those people mentioned by 
Dante, whose faces were turned backwards, and who, 
accordingly, saw nothing but what was behind them ! 

Almost equally mischievous with this ecclesiastical 
interference is the direct personal influence which, not- 
withstanding the interposition of ministerial agency, 
the monarch still continues to hold over the minds of 
the whole community, and which must long, we fear, 
prevent the French from attaining that abstract and 
constitutional notion of the Royal power, upon which 



ciples on which it was founded, would nevertheless remain unshaken 
and uncensured : ' Abeat ergo declaratio manet inconcussa et cen- 
surae omnis expers prisca ilia sententia Parisiensium.' Of this 
sentence M. de la Mennais, and other Ultramontane writers who 
quote it, omit all but the first three words ' Abeat ergo declaratio r 
as if Bossuet had said and meant, Away, then, with the declara- 
tion I ' 

The Bishop of Hermopolis, in his late exposition of the state of 
ecclesiastical affairs, has evidently endeavoured to weaken the force 
of this Antipapal document; saying of it <Que Louis XIV lui 
donna en quelque sorte une existence lgale, non que ce grand roi 
voulut en faire un point de doctrine, mais parce qu'il dut penser 
qu'une declaration approuve par tous les eveques avait qiielqiie cliose 
de respectable.' 

1 La Propagation de la Foi. 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. ,,,,,-, i 9 i 

not only the theory but the practice of a government 
like theirs depends. To the mind of a Frenchman, the 
idea of a king always presents itself in the pompous 
form and attitude of that portrait of Louis XIV. at 
Versailles, under which is so ar>propriately inscribed, 
* Le Roi gouverne par lui-meme ; ' and the language of 
many of their political writers at this day shows how 
wholly the safety and convenience of the doctrine of 
ministerial responsibility is misunderstood by them. 
The vanity, indeed, of the whole nation makes common 
cause with the vanity of the sovereign ; and they could 
more easily dispense with a king altogether, than retain 
him on a reduced allowance of that prostration which, 
from habit, it has become a sort of second nature in 
them to pay. As long as this old ' Grand Monarque ' 
feeling exists, it must stand considerably in the way of 
.all advances towards a free and manly tone of political 
thinking. We have quite enough of such deference to 
the corporeal part of Royalty among ourselves ; but in 
France the monarch, in person, meets you everywhere. 
His wishes enter into the concoction of every public 
measure ; and there is not a public institution that is 
not warped by this habitual inclination towards his will ; 
just as the women of the Grand Turk's seraglio, from 
their habit of leaning towards their lord, are said to 
grow crooked on the side at which the Sultan sits. 

The author of the work which has led us into these 
few general observations, gives the following explana- 
tion of his motives and design in writing it : 

J'ai voulu, dans les lettres que je publie, tracer en riant 
tine sorte de Cours d' administration. 

Le libraire les a fait impriiner. parce qu'il les croit amu- 
santes ; moi, parce que je les crois utiles. 

L'administration envahit tout ; les administrateurs pul- 
lulent j et pourtant les quatre-vingt-dix-neuf centiemes de 



.102 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

la population ignorent completement quelle est la nature de 
cette force niotrice qui, nous poussant, a coups d'ordon- 
nances, de reglemens et d'arretes, nous contraint a marcher 
droit sur la grande route de 1'obeissance. 

C'est une etude a faire : soyons moutons, je le veux bien ; 
marchons docilement et en troupeaux, puisqu'il y a necessite 
a produire de la laine, surtout puisqu'il faut paitre, et paitre 
dans les champs permis ; mais, moutons observateurs, sachons 
au moins quelle longueur ont les houlettes de nos bergers ; 
quand et pourquoi ils lancent contre nous leurs chiens 
devoues ; et, s'il est de notre destinee d'etre tondus, appre- 
nons du moins Tart de brouter opportunement, et de beler 
f d propos. 

Elle est innombrable la foule de gens qui paient leur& 
impots et qui ignorent quelle est la puissance chargee d'ouvrir 
leur bourse de gre ou de force ; ils ne savent pas le moins 
du monde par qui est mise en jeu cette grande machine ou 
vont s'engloutir des portions de leur argent dans des trous 
appeles douane, octroi, impdt fonder, portes et fenetres, 
patente, timbre, loterie, &c. ; ce sont autant de casse-cous dont 
ils ne connaissent point la profondeur. Qui les y pousse ? 
Peu leur importe : ils savent de pere en fils qu'il y faut 
tomber, voila tout. Leurs devoirs militaires, civils et poli- 
tiques, ils les remplissent sous 1'empire de la meme ignorance. 

N'apercevez-vous pas qu'il y a derriere tout cela des 
ministres, des directeurs et des commis^ des prefets, des 
procureurs du roi, des gendarmes et des coinmissaires de 
police 1 ? N'est-il pas a propos d'apprendre comment ces 
bergers-la se comportent ? de savoir comment ils nous 
parquent, nous marquent et nous comptent? Yous sentez 
qu'il peut y en avoir de sorciers, ou plutot de donneurs de 
sorts ; on en peut rencontrer qui derobent le lait des brebis, 
qui leur tondent la laine sur le dos, et coupent meme le cou 
a quelques agneaux. 

J'ai voulu faire connaitre 1'importance, la faineantise, la 
cupidite et 1'egoi'sme de la plupart de ces bergers ; mais, au 
lieu de monter en chaire et d'affubler la critique de la robe 
noire et du bonnet carre, je 1'ai habillee a la legere. 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 103 

In proceeding to sketch the manner and habits of 
official personages, he begins, in due order, with the 
Minister, and describes to us all that is characteristic 
in his house and establishment. During the revolu- 
tionary times, it was not unusual to convert old convents 
into places of residence for the Ministers. But this 
profane usurpation no longer exists. The religious 
corporations having resumed their rights, these houses 
are now restored to their former purposes ; holy water 
has purified away all official stains ; the bureaux have 
been regenerated into cells and confessionals; and, 
where the chiefs of finance and diplomacy brandished 
their unholy pens, some well-fed congregationist, like 
the hero of the Lutrin, now 

Chante les Oremus, fait des processions, 
Et repand a grands flots les benedictions. 

The following picture of an unlucky Minister, who, 
after superintending the construction of a new mansion 
for himself and suite, is just as he has completed it 
to his heart's content dismissed, affords a lesson on 
the mutability of ministerial affairs, which might well 
make some of the new- dwellers of Downing Street 
tremble in their tenements : 

Cette restitution, aux congregations, des domaines que IB 
service de Tetat avait envahis, a conduit a la necessity des 
constructions, necessite ruineuse pour les budgets, surtout 
pour les contribuables, mais tres-profitable aux architectes 
des ministeres. Dans ces cas frequens, le plan de construc- 
tion est ordinairement trace par le ministre en place, qui 
travaille, en cela, pour son successemv Ceci fournirait 
matiere & une excellente com^die. II faut voir avec quel 
soin son Excellence recommande 1'antichambre, la salle a 
manger, le petit salon, le grand salon, et 1'escalier derobe. 
Jusqu'& ce que le plan soit bien arrete, les affaires d'e" tat sont 
mises a 1'arriere. Madame est consultee, et prevoit aussi 



104 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

pour les aises de la femme du prochain ministre. Le grand 
jour la fatigue : les carreaux du boudoir seront en verre 
depoli. Elle tient a communiquer avec ses enfans sans tra- 
verser les grands appartemens 1 Yite, un escalier en coli- 
magon est perce dans le petit corps de logis. II faut que la 
nourrice et la femme de chambre aient deux appartemens 
voisins. C'est 1'affaire d'une aile a ajouter au batiment du 
nord. Les magons ont fini, la menuiserie et la serrurerie 
sont achevees, les peintures sont seches et ne donnent plus 
d'odeur; le demenagement a commence. Arrive la fatale 
ordonnance qui nomme le successeur : il n'a rien a apporter 
que son bonnet de nuit ; son predecesseur a pense a tout. 

He then describes, with some liveliness, the mansion 
of his excellence : 

Avant de loger les bureaux, il faut loger le ministre et 
sa suite. Cela exige tout un hotel. La porte est cochere, 
cela va sans dire : a droite et a gauche sont plantes des sup- 
ports qui datent de 1793, et qui, depuis cette epoque, ont 
regu des lampions en Thonneur de tous les gouvernemens ; 
car les lampions ne se sont point encore avises d'avoir 
d'opinion : ils brulent pour tout le monde. Au-dessus de 
cstte porte courent ordinairement quelques vieilles sculp- 
tures ; souvent des Hercules avec leurs massues ; quelquefois 
des Libertes qu'on a depuis decoiffees, conceptions repu- 
blicaines que Ton doit a des sculpteurs dont le ciseau converti 
produit aujourd'hui des Saint Jean-Baptiste et des apotres. 
Dans quelque coin de la corniche, on distingue les restes 
d'une inscription en lettres rouges, que le temps a insultees ; 
1'ceil a bientot complete leurs contours, et lit avec facilite ces 
mots : Propriete nationale cb vendre. On entre, et Ton voit, 
attenant au massif de la porte, un petit pavilion, de nouvelle 
construction, qui est destine au logement du suisse : ce pa- 
vilion se compose de deux pieces par has, et de deux cham- 
brettes a 1'etage superieur ; il y a la de quoi loger le suisse 
et sa femme. 

La cour est spacieuse : cinquante carrosses y tiennent & 
Taise. La, un brin d'herbe ne s'aviserait pas de demander 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 105 

1'hospitalite au petit intervalle qui separe deux paves: il 
serait & 1'instant foule par un pied de cheval ou de solliciteur. 
L'herbe a de 1'instinct, et n'ose pousser que dans la cour d'un 
hopital ou d'une bibliotheque. 

The feelings of a dismissed Minister on leaving his 
official residence that moment, when 

Soul and body rive not more at parting 
Than greatness going off, 

are touched upon with suitable pathos ; and the occupa- 
tions of the fallen functionary on the night previous to 
his decampment are thus described : 

Un feu des plus actifs a ete allume dans le cabinet du 
ministre ; il s'y est enferme avec son secretaire intime. L& 
tous deux passent une partie de la nuit a faire une revue 
generale des cartons et des papiers. Cette operation est im- 
portante ; elle a ses regies et ses principes. On fait trois 
tas : papiers inutiles ; papiers a einporter ; papiers & bruler. 

On range parmi les papiers inutiles les vues d' ameliora- 
tions et les pro jets d' economic. On laisse toujours cela a son 
suceesseur. 

Les papiers a emporter se composent de rapports confi- 
dentiels sur le personnel, et principalement de notes secretes. 
On n'a dit que la verite, mais alors on etait paye pour cela, 
et il ne faut pas se faire d'ennemis gratis. On emporte 
encore, et cela tres-soigneusement, des protestations faites au 
ministre en place par M. le due, par madame la duchesse. 
On ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver, et ces temoignages-la, 
dans une autre occasion, serviront de points d'appui. Enfin 
on emporte certains travaux d'ensemble, ouvrage de quelque 
bon commis, oil sont analysees toutes les ressources du minis- 
tere, et qui pourront, au besoin, aider a la critique de 1'ad- 
ministration du nouveau ministre. 

On brvile une multitude de petites situations, de petits 
tats qui mettraient trop promptement le suceesseur au cou- 
rant du travail ; on brule la minute d'un discours inedit de 



io6 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

son excellence a la chambre des deputes ; on brule un projet 
de reglement sur le rappel a Pordre, le manuscrit d'une 
petite brochure sur les inconveniens des chartibres parlantes, 
une foule de documens ou les circonstances nouvelles sem- 
blent faire ressortir des contradictions; on brule enfin des 
demandes de places et des denonciations. La flamme s'elance 
de tous cotes : c'est un feu d'enfer. 

Voila comme un ministre disgracie met de 1'ordre dans 
ses papiers. II a fini. Cinq heures du matin viennent de 
sonner. Son Excellence tombe sur le canap6 du cabinet 
particulier, et, pour la premiere fois, le duvet de son double 
coussin lui semble dur. Pendant deux heures, elle se re- 
toui'ne sur le dos, sur 1'estomac, sur les flancs gauche et droit 
pour chercher le sommeil ; elle allait dormir lorsqu'arrive le 
reveil-matin que voici : 

Louis, par la grace de Dieu, &c. (Suit 1'acceptation de 
la demission.) 

Louis, par la grace de Dieu, &c. (Suit la nomination du 
nouveau ministre.) 

La partie officielle du Moniteur a appris au monde bien 
des desastres ; mais jamais elle n'en a fait retentir aux 
oreilles d'un ministre de plus epouvantables que ceux qu'il 
trouve dans ces ordonnances de remplacemens. Combien 
ont lu le vingt-neuvieme bulletin d'un oail sec, qui ont senti 
leurs larmes couler pour un nom mis a la place du leur. 
On apprend sans fremir 1'aneantissement de cent cinquante- 
mille hommes, mais la perte de cent cinquante mille francs 
se peut-elle supporter ? 

II est sept heures du matin. Le ministre a deja relu 
deux fois les deux ordonnances. Ce n'est qu'un protocole, 
et cependant chaque mot, chaque virgule, fournit a son me- 
contentement le sujet d'un long commentaire. II y a long- 
temps qu'il ne s'impose aucune contrainte devant son secre- 
taire intime. II s'explique a peu pres en ces termes sur 1'une 
et 1'autre ordonnance, en forcant le Moniteur, qu'il inutile 
entre ses doigts, a subir les mille tortiu-es dont son ame est 
dechiree : 

' Nous avons ordonne ! Croirai-je jamais que ce soit le 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 107 

roi qui ait ordonne cette injustice ? II fallait mettre, I 'in- 
trigue a ordonne. Qu'en pensez-vous, monsieur? Ah, 
Monseigneur ! Je sais d'ou part le coup ; il vient du Comte 
que ma fermete incommode ; moi seul lui resistais au conseil ; 
tons les autres saluent son avis. II n'y avait de tete que 
sur mes epaules. Les sots n'ont pas vu qu'ils ne tenaient 
que par moi ; il les fera sauter tous ; il les menage encore ; 
mais une fois qu'il tiendra le budget. Croiriez-vous qu'il 
tranche du diplomate 1 II m'a serre la main hier ; mais ma 
destitution etait ecrite dans ses regards, et je 1'avais devinee. 
Qui pourra, apres Monseigneur, supporter le fardeau d'un 
ministere si important? Moi? j'en suis incapable: lisez 
1'ordonnance : ma sante ne me permet pas. Quelle insultante 
ironie ! Je vous demande si jamais je me suis mieux porte. 
Ai-je rien dit, rien fait qui put faire soupgonner que je fusse 
malade 1 M'a-t-on vu, pendant la session, interrompre mes 
diners? N'en ai-je pas donne six par semaine? Certes, j'y 
prechais d'exemple et ne faisais point, comme tant d'autres, 
semblant de manger ; mais remarquez ceci ; ay ant agree la 
demission. Yous me connaissez : m'avez-vous entendu quel- 
quefois parler de demission? Jamais, Monseigneur. Ja- 
mais : mon devouement etait tropconnu, trop eprouve; j'aurais 
peri au poste ou la confiance du roi m'avait appele. Plutot 
que de donner ma demission, on m'aurait arrache du minis- 
tere, oui, monsieur, arrache en morceaux. Le courage de 
Monseigneur est connu. Et c'est le president du conseil 
des ministres qui se charge (montrant le Moniteur), vous le 
voyez, ce n'est pas moi qui 1'invente, qui se charge d'executer 
cette ordonnance ! Son nom n'est la que pour la forme. 
Donne a Paris, au chdteau des Tuileries ! il fallait mettre : 
donne rue d. . . . a Thotel du comte. Au surplus, c'est a 
tort que je m'offenserais ; cette seconde ordonnance justifie 
la premiere. Quand monsieur .... arrive au ministere, 
il est clair que je ne saurais y demeurer. Vous connaissez 
sans doute les titres de mon successeur ? Monseigneur. . . . 
Eh ! quine les connait pas? ils datent de 93, de la Conven- 
tion et du Conseil des cinq cents ; voue ensuite au Directoire, 
le premier consul en a herite, puis Napoleon, puis le 



io8 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

gouvernement royal, puis encore Napoleon, puis encore le 
gouvernement royal.' 

Cette biographie impromptu du successeur a soulage le 
cceur de son Excellence ; pendant ce discours, le Moniteur 
s'est change, sous ses doigts, en une boule parfaite ; elle 
echappe aux mains de son Excellence, qui, se trouvant ainsi 
sans occupation, retombe dans un acces de tendresse pour son 
secretaire in time. 

1 En quittant le ministere, je compte,' lui dit-elle, ' au 
nombre de mes chagrins les plus cuisans, celui que j'eprouve 
a me separer de vous. Je vous ai manage un abri. Voici 
votre nomination de chef de bureau : elle est datee d'hier. 
(Avec un soupir.) J'etais encore ministre ! ' 

The following receipt for making sinecures might 
have been of use to some former Ministers of our own. 

Vous me demanderez ce que c'est qu'un secretaire general 1 
Cette designation presente a 1'esprit une sorte de factotum 
qui tient la plume pour tout ; c'est precisement le contraire : 
le secretaire general ne tient la plume pour rien ; son metier 
est de contresigner. Par exemple, le ministre prend un 
arrete, fait une instruction, ou adresse une circulaire a ses 
#gens ; il signe ces documens. Eh bien ! le secretaire general 
atteste que la signature apposee par le ministre est en effet 
la signature du ministre. Je me suis toujours demande 
pourquoi on avait borne la cette espece de legalisation ; car 
vous concevez que, si la signature du ministre a besom d'etre 
certifiee veritable, la meme necessite semble se presenter pour 
la signature du secretaire general ; or, en considerant que ce 
dernier certificat aurait lui-meme besoin d'etre certifi6 par un 
cleuxieme secretaire general, il faut reconnaitre qu'on a ap- 
plique la le commencement d'un plan qui conduirait droit 
au systeme des infinis. Je suis etonne qu'on 1'ait arrete en 
si bon chemin, car il offi-ait le moyen le plus sur, et le moins 
.sujet a critique, de creer des suiecures; il etait du moins 
consequent dans toutes ses parties, avantage que n'ont pas 
tous les plans ministeriels. 

Some characteristic traits of Napoleon are given ; 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 109 

and the praise bestowed upon him in this and in other 
recent publications shows that the injunction under 
which his name so long lay in France has at last been 
taken off, and that his memory begins to enter into 
the full possession of its rights. To a ruler who, like 
him, took the thinking department all upon himself, 
nothing was wanting but men who could work ; and the 
value which he attached to such downright machines 
of business is well exemplified in the following 
anecdote : 

Ces chefs de division etaient la piece essentielle, la prin- 
cipale roue d'engrenage de la machine administrative ; ils 
recevaient, en premier ordre, la force motrice et la comnmni- 
quaient a toutes les parties. L'utilit6 de ces excellens 
ouvriers etait bien connue du chef du gouvernement. Son 
impatience de savoir, ses questions soudaines, directes et 
positives, changeaient en une torture les jours de travail de 
ses ministres. Avant de monter en voiture, ils se char- 
geaient de renseignemens, de notes et de chiflres ; ils emprun- 
taient le secours de petits 'calepins, de petits agendas, oil la 
prevoyance la plus ingenieuse inscrivait succinctement des 
reponses a toutes les questions possibles. Ces pauvres 
ministres apprenaient cela par coeur, le matin, le soir; 
c'etaient leurs racines grecques; mais le malheur voulait 
souvent que, forts sur la legon de la veille, ils fussent ques- 
tionnes sur celle du lendemain. Ils restaient courts. 

Parmi les chefs de division se trouvaient souvent des 
homines distingues, dont de bonnes etudes avaient prepare 
les esprits & tous les genres de succes. Jetes, par les circon- 
stances, dans I'administration, qui ofire de frequens moyens 
de faire ressortir les avantages d'un bon jugement, d'une 
redaction prompte, lucide et concluante, d'une discussion 
serree et analytique, ceux-la ne tardaient pas a etre remarques 
par Napoleon ; ils etaient appeles pres de lui toutes les fois 
que le ministre repondait de travers. Lorsque le chef de 
division satisfaisait coui-amment et sans hesitation aux vives 
interrogations de Napoleon, il revenait ordinairement des 



i io FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

Tuileries avec le ruban de la legion d'honneur, ou la dignite 
de conseiller d'Etat. C'etait la, madame, un des dedom- 
magemens de ce regne de fer : quaiid un homme avait du 
talent, chef, sous-chef ou commis, dans quelque rang obscur 
que la fortune 1'eut place, Napoleon, de son bras herculeen, 
le saisissait par les cheveux, le posait sur un piedestal, et 
disait : Voila ma creature. 

Cette disposition de Napoleon a elever le talent qui lan- 
guissait dans les bureaux, fut un jour bien voisine de tomber 
a faux. Le trait est assez comique pour etre rapporte. 

Si nous comptions quelques sujets de merite parmi nos 
chefs de division, vous devez bien penser que le destin capri- 
cieux ne nous epargnait pas non plus ce qu'on appelle tres- 
communenient les ganaches. Mais il est de ces ganaches qui 
ont leur talent propre, leur aptitude speciale, et que souvent 
un homme superieur suppleerait mal dans la partie technique 
qu'elles ont 1'habitude de pratiquer. 

M. X. etait chef de division, sous le ministere du due de 
F. Ce M. X., homme de cinquante ans environ, etait honnete 
et grand travailleur ; mais son travail se bornait a recevoir, 
de tous les points de 1'Europe et de la France, des etats de 
situation qu'il depouillait, dans la vue d'etablir combien de 
soldats etaient presens sous les armes, combien en conge, 
combien aux hopitaux. Cette occupation constante avait 
fait de M. X. une mecanique a additions; il additionnait 
ses bataillons au bureau, dans la rue, a table, au lit; ses 
reves et ses cauchemars redemandaient a sa femme epou- 
vantee une compagnie egaree, une escouade perdue ; il melait 
ses chifires et ses colonnes a ses communications meme 
d'amitie ou de simple politesse et vous aurait volontiers in- 
corpore pour porter au grand complet le regiment ou il lui 
manquait un homme. M. X. avait en outre la memoire des 
lieux ou etait situe chaque corps de troupes : sa tete etait un 
veritable livret d' emplacement. 

Le developpement de Tun de ces vastes projets qui ebran- 
laient le monde conduisant Napoleon a jeter les bases d'une 
nouvelle organisation militaire, il travailla pendant plusieurs 
jours avec le due de F., homme d'un sens droit, d'une raison 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. m 

eclairee, mais dont la memoire n'avait rien de comparable a 
elle de M. X., qui etait, dans ce genre-la, une espece de 
Lemazurier. Les seances commengaient a devenir labo- 
rieuses pour le due de F., attendu que Napoleon demandait 
incessamment ou etait le depot du 45% du 54% du io8 e , et 
que le pauvre due, a chaque nouvelle question, feuilletait, 
tournait, et retournait 1'eiiorme dictionnaire dont 1'avait 
charge M. X. ' Je crois, dit avec timidite le due harasse, que 
la presence de M. X., chef de la division du mouvement des 
troupes, pourrait etre ici utile a Yotre Majeste. Faites-le 
venir.' 

A ces mots, un officier d'ordonnance part, arrive au 
ministere, emballe le pauvre M. X., 1'amene aux Tuileries, 
et le lance dans le cabinet de Napoleon. Toute autre me- 
moire que celle de M. X. eut ete troublee de ce mouvement 
et de cette presentation ; rien ne pouvait alterer la sienne. 
' Bonjour, monsieur ; ou sont les trois premiers bataillons du 
48 1 A Eatisbonne Le quatrieme 1 A Ancone, armee 
d'ltalie. Le cinquieme 1 A Vittoria, 4 e corps de 1'armee 
d'Espagne. Et son depot? Ostende. Presens sous les 
armes 1 3,455. Hopitaux ? 223. Les conges ? 44. De- 
taches 1 Deux compagnies du cinquieme. Aux eaux 1 

-3- 

A ce dialogue, dont 1'epreuve s'etendit immediatement a 
plusieurs corps, avec la meme rapidit^ dans les questions, et 
le meme aplomb dans les repliques, Napoleon reste frappe 
d'etonnement. II tire a part le due de F. ' Vous avez la, 
lui dit-il, un homme extraordinaire.' Puis, se tournant vers 
M. X. : ' Vous pouvez vous retirer ; vous aurez de mes 
iiouvelles. Monsieur le due de F., reprend alors Napo- 
leon, vous me proposerez demain M. X. pour la place de 
conseiller d'Etat. Je prie Yotre Majeste de me permettre 
de lui faire observer que cela n'est point possible. Com- 
ment ? M. X. n'a que des chiffres dans la t6te ; il ne 
saurait pas rediger un rapport. Pour etre conseiller d'Etat 
. . . Eh bien done ! je lui en fais le traitement.' Le bon 
M. X. avait douze mille francs d'appointemens comme chef 
de division ; cette seance lui en valut vingt-quatre mille. 



H2 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

Ces scenes etaient frequentes aux temps ou tons les bras 
ne suffisaient point au travail et a 1'activite qu'exigeaient les 
colossales entreprises du gouvernement/ 

The Commis or Clerks appear to be the class of 
official persons with which this painter of 'moeurs 
administratives ' is best acquainted having been him- 
self, it seems, one of that operative body. Accordingly 
he describes, with much feeling, the scantiness of their 
salaries and the superabundance of their work ; the 
perpetual alarm in which they are kept by rumours of 
retrenchment, and the never-ending trouble which the 
motions for papers and amendments of the Opposition 
inflict upon them. Benjamin Constant, it appears, has 
as many official maledictions showered upon him in 
Paris as Mr. Hume has in London. 

Je sais bien que les amendemens m'ont mis sur les dents. 
M. B. C., auquel on conteste la qualite de Frangais, et qui 
vient de partir pour trouver quelque bonne preuve capable 
de clore la bouche a ses adversaires, m'a fait, durant toute 
une session, passer la vie la plus abominablement laborieuse. 
Je vous declare, a raison de 1'interet que je porte a mes 
anciens camarades, que je fais des vceux bien sinceres pour 
qu'il soit declare etranger, archi-etranger. 

To the great relief, however, of the Clerks, as well 
as of the Ministers, the last elections have reduced the 
ranks of the Opposition to a very manageable number, 
and the Bureaux are now enjoying comparative repose. 

Ce mot ^opposition cause a juste titre I'effroi des em- 
ployes. II m'a coute tant de peines et de fatigues, que ses 
cinq syllabes agitent encore tous mes nerfs. On a donne de 
bien vilaines figures aux diables, aux demons et aux sorciers ; 
Topposition est plus laide que tout cela : on la voit dans les 
bureaux, telle que Yirgile a depeint la Renommee : 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 113 

Monstrum horrendmn, ingens, cui quot sunt corpore plumse, 

Tot vigiles oculi subter (mirabile dictu), 

Tot linguae, totidem ora sonant, tot surrigit aures. 

Ceptendant, le dernier trait, 
Tot linguae, totidem ora sonant, 

tombe tout-a-fait a faux : grace aux dernieres elections, 
Topposition a perdu plus de quatre-vingts langues : la voila 
presque muette. Si j'etais encore commis, je ferais des 
voeux pour qu'elle devint sourde, et qu'elle fut bientot re- 
duite, comme les eleves de 1'abbe Sicard, a ne plus s'exprimer 
que par signes. 

The same convenient views of economy on which 
our own Government has sometimes proceeded, in 
sweeping away whole swarms of unfortunate clerks, 
while they left the great consumers of the public treasure 
uncurt ailed, by a single shilling, of their spoil, are 
frequently adopted and acted upon by the Ministers of 
our neighbours, to whom, indeed, we seem to have 
afforded an 'exemplar vitiis imitabile' throughout. 
This favourite mode of retrenchment is thus pleasantly 
exposed : 

Des deputes sont montes a la tribune, et, & 1'occasion de 
la discussion du budget, Font fait retentir des phrases que 
voici, et que je n'invente point ; je copie le Moniteur : 

' Partout d'enormes appointemens, des frais de bureaux 
immenses, des ARMEES DE COMMIS, surchargent le tr6sor et 
insultent a la misere publique. Les homines de plume 
continuent & ecraser 1'etat et a encombrer les administra- 
tions.' 

Cette sortie, fidelement reproduite par tous les journaux 
du lendemain, est le triste avant-coureur d'une prochaine 
organisation. Elle a porte Tefiroi dans le coeur des hommes 
de plume. Chacun cherche autour de soi s'il a quelque 
motif de reforme, et tremble d'en rencontrer de trop plau- 
sibles. Celui-ci, par exemple, se rappelle qu'il a un cousin 

I 



IH FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

qui a etc sous-prefet de 1'empire ; cet autre, une soeur qui fut 
marchande de modes d'une reine dechue. L'un s'accuse en 
secret d'avoir plaisante une phrase de journal ministeriel ; 
1'autre, d'avoir ete prendre sa demi-tasse au cafe Lemblin. 
Tous enfin, en mangeant leur pain sec et en se desalterant au 
pot a Teau de ministere, craignent d'insulter ct la misere 
publique ; ils voudraient se dissimuler qu'ils appartiennent a 
quelque bataillon de ces armees de commis qui surchargent le 
tresor. 

Le ministre a donne un de ces diners de cinquante 
converts ou le fumet du chevreuil et la vapeur de la truffe 
reunissent les suffrages et forment les majorites. II a con- 
voque pour le soir meme deux directeurs et le secretaire 
general. Tous quatre sont deja dans le cabinet de travail. 
* Messieurs, dit Son Excellence, la Chambre crie contre la 
bureaucratie ; je dois donner 1'exemple d'une grande reforme 
parmi les employes: il me faut 12 0,000 francs d'economie. 
Helas ! Monseigneur, vous voulez done mettre a la porte 
soixante commis a 2 ,000 francs ? Combien sont-ils ? Six 
cents. Arrangez-vous comme vous le voudrez, il faut en 
renvoyer un sur dix. Soixante personnes, cela fera bien des 
rnecontens. Renvoyez done quatre chefs de bureau, huit 
sous-chefs et vingt-huit commis ; frappez les gros appointe- 
mens, et vous ferez mes 120,000 francs avec quarante per- 
sonnes au lieu de soixante ; cela est philanthropique.' 

La base du travail est ainsi arr^tee. II n'est venu & la 
pensee d'aucun de ces quatre messieurs qui touchent ensemble 
270,000 francs, qu'en prenant a la lettre le conseil de Son 
Excellence, ils obtiendraient 120,000 francs d'economie, con- 
serveraient encore 150,000 francs, et n'auraient personne a 
reformer. 

Among other tender ties between the electors and 
the elected, for which the French are indebted to their 
imitation of us, those small services, vulgarly called 
jobs, which Ministerial members are in the habit of 
performing for their constituents, have not, it appears, 
been overlooked ; but, on the contrary, are considered 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 115 

as among the chief blessings of a Eepresentative Govern- 
ment. Places in the tobacco department are particu- 
larly in request among the electors. 

Remarquez que le systeme representatif restaure a donne 
aux deputes une importance qu'ils n'avaient point sous 
1'empire : leur vote fait les destinees des ministres. Les 
ministres tiennent le pouvoir ; c'est bien le moins que leur 
omnipotence accorde des faveurs et des graces a ceux qui, 
par le jeu d'une boule, peuvent affaiblir ou detruire cette 
toute-puissance. Un grand nombre des electeurs provin- 
ciaux n'ignorent pas cette source de credit des deputes 
aupres des ministres, et, dans les choix qu'ils font, accordent, 
par un calcul de localite, leurs suffrages a quelques-uns de 
ces notables qui ne connaissent dans toute la France que leur 
departement. 

Ces deputes-la portent dans le cceur 1'enthousiasme de 
I'arrondissement et le fanatisme de la commune. Leur 
petite ville n'attend d'eux ni opposition, ni discours, ni 
amendemens : elle en espere des pas et des demarches ; ils 
sont de ceux auxquels on dit : 

II faut des actions et non pas des paroles. 

Vous ne sauriez croire jusqu'a quelle profondeur de convic- 
tion ils sont penetres de ce cote d'utilite de leur mandat. A 
peine debarques a Paris, les petitions leur pleuvent, et ils en 
forment de vastes dossiers ou ils prennent soin d'inscrire les 
noms du directeur, du chef de bureau, du sous-chef et du 
commis que cela regarde. L'un sollicite la construction d'un 
petit pont ; Tautre, la percee d'un chemin vicinal. Plusieurs 
veulent faire des directeurs, des inspecteurs et des maitres de 
poste; quelques-uns, que nous envoient les departemens a 
tabac, aspirent a porter leurs concitoyens a tous les emplois 
que les contributions indirectes ont crees a la suite de cette 
plante, comme controleurs speciaux de culture, garde-maga- 
sins, inspecteurs, sous-inspecteurs et chefs de fabrication. 

Under the ancient monarchy of France, all public 
appointments those of Judges among the rest were 

i 2 



n6 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 

sold by the Crown. 1 This monstrous abuse, which 
Montesquieu pays monarchy the ill compliment of 
thinking necessary to it, no longer exists ; as our 
author says, c Le Eoi vous nomme pour rien, et les 
Ministres vous destituent gratis.' But if we may be- 
lieve his statements though public officers no longer 
buy their places, they continue still, as grossly as ever, 
to sell the duties of them : and for this spirit of 
cupidity and venality which, according to him, pervades 
every class of society in France, he thus satisfactorily 
accounts. 

Le dirai-je pourtant? la corruption de nos moeurs ad- 
ministratives a peut-etre une deplorable excuse dans Texempla 
des jeux de fortune que nos revolutions leur ont presentes. 
II faut en convenir : entre les deux epoques de 1789 et de 
1815, c'est-a-dire pendant trente ans, des evenemens extraor- 
dinaires ont aventureusement deplace toutes les sources 
des richesses territoriales, commerciales et industrielles. 
Chacun a pu, au moins une fois, y emplir son broc, comme 
aux vastes fontaines que le luxe des anniversaires erige a la 
soif populaire, ou ce succes est reserve au plus fort et au plus 
adroit. Ces continuels spectacles d'opulences improvisees, 
ces soudaines elevations de fortunes de cinq minutes, ont 
repandu dans les membres du corps social une fievre d'or 
et d'argent qui inegalise et accelere encore ses pulsations, 
Cette fievre s'est surtout attaquee a 1'administration qui, 

1 By an official account given to Colbert in 1664, it appeared that 
the number of places in the two departments of Finance and Justice 
was upwards of forty-five thousand, of which the salaries amounted 
to more than eighty millions of livres. These offices were all sold, 
and the money produced by the sale was part of the revenue. 
Each of these offices carried with it an exemption from taxes ; each 
new creation, therefore, diminished the permanent resources of the 
state. The current price of the whole of these offices, at that time, 
amounted to four hundred and nineteen millions, or about thirty 
millions sterling. History of Europe, from the Peace of Utrecht. 
By Lord John Kussell. See this very clever work, p. 213, for the 
attempt made by Colbert to reform this abuse. 



FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 117 

toujours exposee aux rappels, aux reformes, aux retraites, 
aux conges illimites et a tons les genres de disgraces que les 
ministres ont inventes, cherche a la hate a se creer des bien- 
4tres pendant ses courts instans d'activite. 

It is humiliating to be obliged to confess that the 
same grasping avidity for gain, the same demoralising 
spirit of speculation which is here described as hurrying 
away all classes in France, has, from causes similar in 
their operation, become but too much the characteristic 
of Englishmen. What the Revolution and its sudden 
changes of property are said to have done in that coun- 
try, the Bank Eestriction Act and its consequences 
have assuredly effected here. A perpetually fluctuating 
currency has turned commerce into a game of chance ; 
and, from a nation of gamblers, only the morals of a 
gambler are to be expected. 

We shall here close our notice of this work with 
the expression of our sincere wish that France may be 
half as successful in obtaining the blessings of our form 
of government, as she has evidently been in copying its 
corruptions and defects. 



ANNE SOLJSYN. 1 

[MARCH 1827.] 

OUR readers, we think, on looking at the title of this 
article, will be inclined to exclaim, like the gentleman 

1 1. Anne Soleyn: A Dramatic Poem. By the Kev. H. H. 
Milman, Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford. 8vo. 
London. John Murray, Albemarle Street. 1826. 

2. Anne Boleyn: A Tragedy. By Henry Montague Grover, 
St. Peter's College, Cambridge. 8vo. London. Longman, Kees, 
Orme, Brown, and Green. 1826. 

[Moore refers to this article in his Diary several times, and 
definitely under date February 6-11, 1827.] 



ii8 ANNE BOLEYN. 

in the well-known ghost story, when he saw the super- 
numerary apparition : ' Heavens ! there are two of 
them ! ' We know not whether the fate of this unfor- 
tunate queen, affecting as it is in history, has ever 
before supplied a theme to the Tragic Muse ; but, if 
not, the omission is now amply made up ; and it is 
perhaps as an atonement for having refused Henry VIII. 
one Anne Boleyn, 1 that Oxford and Cambridge now 
club to furnish the world with two. 

Though Anne Boleyn is not expressly named among 
the Keformers of the English Church, it is evident that 
both Protestants and Catholics consider her as nearly 
entitled to that rank, by the zeal with which they con- 
tinue to dispute about her history and character. The 
Catholics, with Cardinal Pole and Father Sanders at 
their head, have represented her as a young lady of the 
most light and unscrupulous morality, whose education 
in gallantry began, from her earliest years, in France, 
and who not only was the mistress of Henry VIII. 
before she became his wife, but had been the mistress 
of Wyatt the poet 2 before she devolved to the king. 
Not content with this estimate of Anne herself, they 
extend the same charitable view to all her relations. 
Her mother, Lady Boleyn, is accused also of an undue 
degree of intimacy with Henry ; and at a date fixed so 
conveniently as to make it probable, they think, that 
Anne may have been his child. The eldest daughter, 
too, Miss Mary Boleyn, who, they say, first succeeded 
her mother in the royal favour, is allowed by these 
scandalous chroniclers no other credit than that of 



1 ' Oxford alone, and Cambridge (says Hume) made .some diffi- 
culty.' 

2 See, for some remarks on her supposed amour with Wyatt, 
Memoirs of the Court of Henry tlie Eighth, by Mrs. A. T. Thomson a 
work of much good sense, impartiality, and research. 



ANNE BOLEYN. 119 

having served as a warning to her young sister, by 
yielding to the monarch with a degree of facility which 
the other learned from her fate not to imitate. 

The Protestant writers, on the other hand, describe 
the whole race of Boleyns as the most moral and ex- 
emplary personages imaginable. The education of 
Anne at the French Court they hold to have been no 
less useful to her morals than people of all religions 
allow it to have been to her toilette. Mr. Turner, 
indeed, one of the most recent, as well as most Pro- 
testant historians of this period, after descanting on 
the piety and virtue of Anne's great protectress, the 
Queen of Navarre a lady, by the by, who wrote a 
book too naughty for any other lady to read and 
having mentioned that the princess had always a Bible 
in her hands, says enthusiastically, ' This will account 
for the attachment which Anne Boleyn afterwards 
displayed for the Divine Volume and the Keformed 
opinions, and will tend to make the impartial mind 
discredit the slanders that attempt to depict her as a 
vulgar hackney of depravity, in the sweetest and most 
beauteous season of the female life, the usual spring- 
time of every virtuous feeling and nobler purpose ! ' 

Eespecting the conduct of Anne Boleyn after her 
marriage, there is the same variance of opinion and 
testimony between the two creeds. While one party 
supposes her to have been eternally occupied in low 
intrigues with her servants, Norris, Weston, and 
Smeaton, the other represents her as closeted with the 
Keformer, Latimer, consulting for the interests of the 
new faith, and planning measures for the protection of 
those Protestant merchants who had just then opened 
a lucrative trade in the importation of Bibles. 1 

1 See, in Strype, her letter on this subject to Cromwell. 



120 ANNE BOLEYN. 

This religious difference respecting Anne Boleyn 
has not been confined solely to her moral qualities, but 
influences also the descriptions which the respective 
parties have left us of her person. According to the 
Reformed taste, she was the very perfection of loveli- 
ness ; or, if any blemish (such as the brownness of her 
complexion and ' certain small moles ' here and there) 
might be pointed out, they were in her rather graces 
than blemishes, and might be numbered among 

Those fair defects that best conciliate love. 

Viewed by the old light, however, she wears a very 
different aspect ; her beauty, like that of Dido in the 
shades, appears ' per umbram obscuram,' while every 
defect is brought out in the fullest relief. To a good 
Catholic's eye her complexion seemed to be yellow, as 
if from jaundice ; she had ' a gag tooth, six fingers on 
one hand, and a tumour under her chin ! ' In addition 
to this choice catalogue of charms, a French medical 
writer professes to have discovered that she was (like 
the monstrous busts we sometimes see of Ceres and 
Diana) multimammia. With the utmost gravity, too, 
he suggests that, as she had six fingers on her hand, it 
is probable that she had the same superfluity of toes 
upon her foot ! elle avait peut-etre egalement six 
doigts au pied. 9 (Dictionnaire des Sciences Medicales. ) 
In answer to all this, the Protestant stoutly denies the 
six fingers, though he owns she had, on one of her 
fingers, a ' supplemental nail.' So far, however, he 
contends, from being a blemish, this superfluous nail 
was rather an ornament than otherwise ; being, as the 
biographer of Wyatt describes it, 'so small, by the 
report of those that have seen her, as the woorkmaster 
seemed to leave it an occasion of greater grace to her 
hand, which, with the tip of one of her other fingers, 



ANNE SOLEYN. 121 

might be, and was usually, by her hidden, without any 
the least blemish to it.' 

In the curious metrical Histoire d'Anne Boleyn, 
written, it is thought, by a contemporary, and pub- 
lished lately from a manuscript in the Bibliotheque du 
Eoi, we find the following verses, which tell quite as 
much for the coquetry of the fair queen as her 
beauty : 

S'elle estoit belle et de taille elegante, 
Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante, 
Lesquelz sgavoit bien conduyre a propos 
En les tenant quelquefoys en repos ; 
Aucunefoys envoyant en message 
Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage. 

Much as her form seduced the sight, 

Her eyes could even more surely woo ; 
And when and how to shoot their light 

Into men's hearts, full well she knew. 
For, sometimes, in repose, she hid 
Their rays beneath a downcast lid ; 
And then, again, with wakening air, 

Would send their sunny glances out, 
Like heralds of delight, to bear 

Her heart's sweet messages about. 

Among the historians who recount the loves of 
Henry VIII. we have met with none not even Miss 
Benger who dwells upon them with such romantic 
fondness as Mr. Turner, the amiable author of the 
history of the Anglo-Saxons. This gentleman, in a 
volume just published, has taken the Defender of the 
Faith under his especial protection, and endeavoured to 
vindicate his memory from the ' slanders and revilings ' 
Tinder which, in his opinion, it has too long lain. In 
this chivalrous enterprise Mr. Turner professes himself 



122 ANNE BOLEYN. 

to be actuated by a sincere alarm at those c advocates 
of Komish supremacy who aspire to build once more 
the Papal monarchy in Europe, or who may expect to- 
share in the dignities and comforts that would flow to 
many from its re-possessioned establishments.' How 
far Mr. Turner's quarto is likely to prevent these 
alarming persons from ' re-possessioning their esta- 
blishments ' remains to be seen. Voltaire who was. at 
all events, no Catholic says that Henry was 'tyran 
dans son gouvernement, comme dans sa famille,' and 
that <il merite 1'execration de la posterite.' This,, 
however, is far from Mr. Turner's view of the matter ; 
and, though unable to make out any good defence for 
his hero on the article of wives, the conclusion he 
comes to on his general conduct is, that there ' was not 
a sovereign in Europe that, circumstanced as he was,, 
would have acted otherwise than he did, except as to 
his queens.' Even ' as to his queens,' too, there are 
certain traits in the amatory character of the monarch 
that delight and dazzle the imagination of his sage 
historian prodigiously. Among others, the constancy 
with which he clung to Anne during the tedious pro- 
cess of buying up the consciences of the divines of 
Europe, is thus tenderly put by Mr. Turner. ' Perhaps 
the annals of affection or of civil history will hardly 
furnish another instance of a king's constancy for a 
beautiful subject lasting nearly six years, in patient 
waiting for the nuptial tie.' Anne, too, comes in for 
her share of praise on this score. c It 'may, indeed, be 
questioned if biography can furnish a parallel of another 
young lady, of merely gentle birth, resisting for six 
years the seductive agencies that were surrounding her, 
when her lover was a king.' Sometimes, however, he 
seems to doubt whether the Whig principle of resistance 



ANNE BOLEYN. 123 

to tyrants was quite so strong in Anne as to justify all 
this praise ; witness the following exquisite passage : 
' As far as the fashion of the day, the usual guide and 
rule of those who live most conspicuously in a court 
and a metropolis, or a desire of coinciding with the 
king's opinions could influence Anne Boleyn, she was 
likely to have been as pliant as the plumage of her 
head-dress to the solicitations and aspirations of a royal 
and interesting admirer.' l If this ' interesting admirer ' 
could have contented himself with the pliancy of poor 
Anne's head-dress, without proceeding to experiments 
upon the head itself, we should have felt much more 
sympathy with Mr. Turner's gallant description of his 
courtship. 

Lest it should be supposed, however, from what we 
have said, that this amiable historian has, in his zeal 
for No-Popery and Henry VIII., attempted to palliate 
any of the family murders of his hero, we must, in 
justice to him, extract the following passage, as a proof 
not only of the horror with which he contemplates Anne 
Boleyn's fate, but of the sprightly and elegant style in 
which that horror is expressed by him : ' To consign 
the long-beloved wife of his bosom, the selected object 
of his caresses, for whom he had braved and defeated 
popes, priests, sovereigns, slander, hatred, treason, and 
peril, to a violent, public, and defaming death ; and by 
a signature, written in the very apartments where he 
had feasted upon her smiles ; listened, delighted, to 
her merry chit-chat, and danced, enraptured with her 
grace, in all her fearless and unforeseeing gaiety ; 
ordering the "little neck," which he had so often 
admired and caressed, to be cut asunder by the but- 

1 P. 475. 



124 ANNE BOLEYN. 

chering strokes of a common executioner, was an act 
better suited to an Othello, to a relentless Moor, or to 
a turbaned Turk ! ' 

The famous love-letters of Henry to Anne Boleyn 
form another topic, on which the tastes of Protestants 
and Catholics differ very materially ; the delicacy of 
the latter being much shocked by these productions, 
while the former regard them as patterns of princely 
love-making. Dr. Lingard stops short in quoting one 
of these letters, unwilling to contaminate his page 
with the rest of it. The Catholic biographer of Car- 
dinal Pole declares that there are some expressions in 
them, ( below even the coarseness of Thames Street 
gallantry ; ' while Mr. Turner, who forgives, as we have 
seen, the Queen of Navarre's naughty tales, in considera- 
tion of her laudable leaning to Lutheranism pro- 
nounces the letters of Henry VIII. to be ' models of 
respectful love' 'congenial billets,' 'genuine speci- 
mens of an honourable affection, expressed in the easy 
language of true feeling and good sense ; reflecting 
credit upon his mind as a man, and his heart as a king.' 
Such are the extremes into which partisans, on both 
sides, fling themselves, and such the absurd spirit which 
is now at work everywhere, which is driving that ex- 
cellent Catholic, Mr. Butler, to illustrate his doctrine 
of Transubstantiation, by the mysterious intermixture 
of quassia with beer, 1 and which urges that super- 

1 In condemning the rashness of that Protestant oath which 
declares the doctrines of Transubstantiation, &c., to be idolatrous, 
Mr. Butler asks (as an illustration of the temerity of their swearing 
that there is no transference of substance into the sacrament), 
' What would the Barons of the Exchequer have said of a person 
who, on a late trial for the adulteration of beer, had sworn that no 
quassia had been infused into it, and had afterwards confessed, on 
cross-examination, that he took what he said upon trust, and had 
never examined the composition ? ' 



ANNE BOLEYN. 125 

excellent Protestant, Dr. Southey, to accuse the Catho- 
lics of the present day of believing that the devil, once 
upon a time, held a candle to St. Dominic, and so awk- 
wardly as to singe his own paw. 1 

But to come to our tragedies. The chief objection 
to the story of Anne Boleyn, as a dramatic subject, is 
that between her coronation and her execution, the two 
periods on which the interest or peripetia of the action 
hinges, there elapsed an interval of three years, a period 
somewhat too long for even our latitudinarian notions 
with respect to the annihilation of time and space on 
the stage. To get over this difficulty, Mr. Grover, 
who begins with his heroine from the date of her 
marriage, slides in a little note between the second and 
third acts, to say ' There is a lapse of three years from 
this act to the next following one, where the history 
is renewed at the period of Anne's decline in Henry's 
favour.' Not content with this chronological advertise- 
ment, he prefaces the third act with a long rhyming- 
address, apologising for his breach of the unities. This 
address he puts into the mouth not of a beef-eater, as 
would have been English and natural but of the god 
Mercury, who has no other connexion, we fear, with 
Mr. Grrover's play than that which his ' jus in animas 
defunctorum et damnatorum ' gives him. This deity, 
descending in 'loud thunder,' thus addresses the 
audience : 



1 See the Vindicice Ecclesice Aiiglicance. Dr. Lingard having 
endeavoured to get rid of some of these anile tales, which his 
brother doctor has raked up against the Papists, by discrediting 
the authority of Osbern, on whose testimony many of them rest, 
Dr. Southey, in reply, exclaims rhetorically and triumphantly, No, 
Sir, the ship St. Peter, bearing for its flag the keys and triple 
crown in a field gules, is not to escape by throwing Osbern over- 
board, as if he were the Jonas for whose only offence the storm has 
overtaken her.' 



126 ANNE BOLEYN. 

'Tis noisy travelling this. God bless us ! 
Did ever mortal hear so great a clatter 1 
I wish to heavens the good folks of Parnassus 
Would not make such a noise about the matter ; 
Stirring the Gods to anger and debate 
About a thing of very little weight. 
But here I am, thank heaven ; and now 
To you, sweet ladies, beg to make my bow 
And then proceed to tell you why I'm here, 
From Helicon's fair spring a messenger, &c. &c. 

In these couplets, it will be perceived, there is not 
the usual compromise of one line for sense and the 
other for the rhyme ; on the contrary, nonsense usurps 
both, and rhyme is little thought of between them. 
The blank verse of Mr. Grrover, though much more 
pregnant with meaning, dispenses with metre as uncere- 
moniously as his couplets do with rhyme. Frequently, 
indeed, be seems to think, with a certain philosophic 
dramatist of our times, that^ prose broken up, and 
pointed like verse, ought to satisfy all reasonable 
people quite as well as poetry. For instance : 

But how did end 
This story ? 

Queen Catherine. The king, confirm'd of the truth 
Of the appeal, held himself free of the Moor \ 
Who was dismiss'd, unharm'd in honour, 
To his own kingdom ; the heroic lover 
Linger'd of his wounds ; and, being first married 
To her for whom he perish'd, shortly died. 

It is said of that admirable actor and worthy man, 
the late Mr. Kemble, that he would frequently, from 
the babit of declaiming, talk blank verse in conversation, 
as unconsciously as the Bourgeois Grentilhomme talked 
prose ; and one of his theatrical friends used to imitate 



ANNE BOLEYN. 127 

him in the act of addressing a beggar, to whom he had 
just given a penny, in the following heroics : 

Kemble. See that thou hast a penny, 

Beggar. (Looking into his hand) I have, sir. 

Kemble. (Turning to his friend) Banister ! 

It is not often that I do these things, 

But when I do, I do them handsomely. 

Much the same sort of blank verse abounds in every 
page of Mr. Grrover's tragedy. For example 

The King is with Sir Richard CoomLe, and waits 
To hear the death of poor Sir Thomas More. 

In the management of his plot, Mr. Grrover is not 
more successful than in his dialogue. The only addition 
to historical facts that he has hazarded, is founded upon 
one of those imprudent speeches to her attendants, 
which formed the grounds of accusation against the 
unfortunate queen. It being stated in the depositions, 
that Anne had once bantered her servant Weston on 
his love for a certain kinswoman of hers, this mistress of 
Weston is, in the play, converted into a Lady Margaret 
Lee, who, having 

stooped 

To trust his honour in the shadows gray 

Of the still lawns, 

is afterwards deserted by her seducer. In the height 
of her despair, she makes an offer of herself to a ' ro- 
mantic country gentleman,' named Gradsden, whose 
proposals she had often before rejected ; and this 
Arcadian squire, though acquainted with her mishap, 
accepts her as joyfully as if nothing had happened. 

We have some faint recollection of a late traveller 
on the continent, who tells us, that, having heard some 
foreigner praised as a * most excellent country gentle- 



128 ANNE BOLEYN. 

man,' felt a strong curiosity to see this pattern of con- 
tinental squires, and, on paying him a visit, found him 
in a high garden-turret, dressed in a pea-green coat, 
and playing on a guitar. That Mr. Grrover's beau-ideal 
of a country gentleman is somewhat similar, may be 
perceived by the following extract from a scene, where 
Squire Gradsden is discovered with his sister : 

Gadsden. Here, sister, is the spot I have design'd 
To build this fane of my idolatry. 
Here shall the tablet, with the name emboss'd 
Of Margaret, honour'd ! Margaret, ever dear ! 
Be planted ; and about, to guard the spot 
From the loose rompings of the vagrant winds, 
These guards shall stand ; and round their russet trunks 
Bear a rich screen of jessamine and rose. 
Beneath their shade and shelter I may pass 
The tedium of dull life ; and, here redlining, 
Speak of my love to thee. 

In this tender moment, his ' honour'd Margaret y 
arrives tells him of her adventure with the perfidious. 
Weston offers herself to him such as she is, ' for better.. 
for worse,' and is thus carried off in triumph by the 
6 romantic country gentleman.' 

Gadsden. Most gratefully I take regard so pure ; 
And in this friendship will raise up a flame, 
So Heaven consenting, shall illume the land 
With the pure light of love ; to be a beacon 
For faithful hearts to go by. Come, Margaret, 
I must bear off my prize : take you my arm ; 
Sister, you the other. [Exeunt, 

We should do injustice, however, to this Cambridge 
poet, as well as to ourselves, who thus take the trouble 
of reviewing him, did we allow our readers to form their 
opinion of his talents solely upon the impression which 



ANNE SOLEYN. 129 

these unfavourable extracts must have left. Wonderful 
as it may seem, after such specimens, it is yet true 
that there is a considerable portion of cleverness and 
dramatic power in his play. Though never reaching, 
as may be supposed, the higher flights of talent, he has 
the merit very rare in this ambitious age of but 
seldom aiming at them. The efforts of genius itself 
become painful, when too visibly efforts ; and, even in . 
those who are most successful in their pursuit of 
beauties, it is a tiresome fault to be always pursuing 
them : 

Yous avez de 1'esprit ; c'est chose tres certaine : 

Mais vous courez apres Clnnene 

Comme si vous n'en aviez pas. 

Worst of all, however, are those the far larger class 
in whom the ambition to shine is unaccompanied 
by the power ; whose efforts but serve to render their 
weakness more obvious, and to whom that description 
of mental impotency is applicable, 'multum cupiit, 
nihil potuit.' To neither of these classes of writers 
does Mr. Grrover belong ; while he wants the genius 
that justifies the ambition of the one, he is also with- 
out the pretension that brings ridicule on the failures of 
the other. 

In the dialogue of this play, the more level and 
ordinary style of our early dramatists is often success- 
fully imitated ; and, now and then, even their more 
elevated tone is caught. The following scene, where 
Jane Seymour attempts to describe the intoxication of 
heart which she feels at the discovery of the king's 
love for her, is, for the most part, very gracefully 
written : 

Enter LADY EOCHFORD and JANE SEYMOUR. 
Lady Rochford. It is a sweet reprieve from toiling plea- 
sure, 



1 30 ANNE BOLEYN. 

To breathe thus undisturb'd the silent breeze. 
And the still sky and solemn-feeling moon 
Wake in my thought the sense of childish years ; 
When I did love to play beneath her beam. 

Jane Seymour. I have no sense of by-gone happiness. 
The present scenes surround and fill my bosom ; 
And every movement seems to bring new joy. 
The soft breath of the air, perfumed with spring, 
And charged with sounds half dying, half reviving, 
In sinking cadences of broken harmony, 
AVrap all my heart as in a lovely vision. 
Sure 't was by moonlight, and in the sweet sound 
Of falling waters, or what other music 
Nature doth make, that men first learn'd to love. 

Lady Rockford. Soh ! the sweet spirit moves my lovely 

Jane ; 

These rhapsodies betray the latent fire, 
Which burns within ; but, ah ! beware. 
What, now, if I should guess the kindling sun, 
Which warms your spirits into this quick commotion ? 

Jane Seymour. I ne'er could name the name. Th' un- 
stable light, 

Not yet bound in its sphere, lives in all regions, 
And has ta'en no form. 

Lady Rochford. But, when 't is fixed, 

'T will rise as high as is the Royal Sun : 
Is 't not so, sweet Jane 1 

Jane Seymour. Indeed, I know not ; 

My mind is not advised by my heart 
Of its true bias ; therefore I pray excuse me. 

We shall give one more extract from a scene be- 
tween Henry and Anne ' in the State apartment, where 
the Queen is confined.' Historians tell us that Anne 
imputed her miscarriage, on this occasion, to the un- 
happiness which she had felt at the discovery of the 
king's love for her maid. Her answer, in the following 
scene, to Henry's reproaches on the subject, is, we think, 
natural and pathetic : 



ANNE BOLEYN. 131 

Enter KING HENRY. 

King Henry. What, 'fore God, woman ! how's the Queen ? 

Lady. So please your Highness, but indifferent well. 

King Henry. Indeed ! make way ; and bid the groom 
Prepare our horses, we would ride alone. 
What Anne ; how fares the Queen 1 
We would have wished more welcome in this meeting, 
And bade our consort hail with better seeming, 
If she had been more favour'd of high Heaven ; 
And brought the chief hope of our royal breast, 
The heir we had look'd for. 

Queen Anne. My Lord ! my Lord ! 

King Henry. Tore God, this puling passion ill beseems, 
I say it ill beseems King Henry's wife ; 
The blessing of just Heaven shines not on thee, 
And this miscarriage dims my royal crown. 
Is there no other meet employ to suit thee, 
Whose brows are circled with the crown of state ; 
But, like a wilful girl of schooling years, 
You must consult and crave to satisfy 
This inward grovelling spirit of romance 1 
Thou hadst a precious charge, which charge was mine ; 
Not only mine, but my kingdom's; and 't is lost; 
Gone from us by thy wayward fantasies, 
Unqueenly and not fitting your estate. 

Queen Anne. It is true. Most gracious Sovereign, 
Bear with me while I speak. My heart o'erflows, 
And your reproaches bring the keenest pains 
Of all I suffer. But, ah ! my Lord, 
When was your Queen other than such a one 
As draws this chastening from your- royal lips ? 
Did ever, ere the crown had pres^'d these brows ; 
Ere to this giddy eminence, where thy bounty 
Hath placed your Queen ; or from her humble happiness 
That Queen was sever'd by your royal favour; 
Did ever Anne, the favour'd Anne of Henry, 
Disguise from him the workings of her bosom, 

K 2 



1 32 ANNE BOLEYN. 

Or hide the quick throbs of an anxious heart ? 

My Lord, I own my frailty on this point ; 

I do confess a wounding arrow strikes me, 

Strikes that same anxious heart, and shakes my frame. 

G-ood gracious Heaven ! through the open windows, 

Where looks thy mercy forth upon thy creatures, 

Be thou my comfort in this hour of sorrow ; 

Hold up the broken spirit of my heart, 

That I may bear me meekly ! Oh ! Henry, hadst thou 

Felt but the tithe part of the tithe of woe, 

That hath fall'n on the heart of thy true servant 

Indeed, my Lord, I wander, but my tongue 

Will utter it since that sad hour, the saddest 

Of my lost life, wherein my failing sight 

Met the dread proof of thy forgetfulness ; 

Thou wouldst still pity with so warm a heart, 

That in the very impulses of nature 

Thy natural love would turn again to its channel, 

And I be blest again. But I am faint ; 

I pray you, good my gracious Sovereign, 

Forgive my unguarded speech. 

In proceeding now to notice the play or ' dramatic 
poem' of Mr. Milman we think it right to mention 
that, in a preface prefixed by Mr. Grover to his tragedy,, 
it is more than hinted that the coincidence between 
himself and Mr. Milman, in their choice of a subject, 
was not altogether accidental : 

The following drama (says Mr. Grover) was written by 
me in the months of January and February, 1823 ; and was 
shortly afterwards, at the instance of a friend, put into Mr. 
Murray's hands for publication, who informed me that it 
was consigned to some person for perusal. It was returned, 
however, with a polite intimation that, in consequence of the 
recent failure of some poem by Lord Byron, the public taste 
did not seem disposed towards works of the sort : and, in 
plain terms, that it was not convenient to Mr. Murray to- 
publish it. 



ANNE BOLEYN. 133 

This circumstance and other engagements have since 
taken me from the purpose of immediate publication ; but I 
always entertained the intention, at some time, of revising 
and correcting those crudities of composition which I am 
aware the play must possess, and then to publish it. 

That intention has been accelerated by the publication of 
Mr. Milman's dramatic poem on the same subject ; which I 
heard of, for the first time, late in last August. On perusing 
that work, with the curiosity with which one looks for diver- 
sities of thought on the same subject, I was surprised to find 
in it a series of resemblances, both in the plot and expressions, 
to those of my own poem. 

With respect to these alleged resemblances in the 
language of the two plays, we have not, we confess, been 
able to trace them. Those who are at all acquainted 
with the general style of Mr. Milman, will not require 
to be told how totally different is the unpretending 
and somewhat slip-shod gait of Mr. Grover from the 
lofty and grandisonant march of the professor of poetry 
of Oxford. The language of tragedy, according to 
Aristotle, should be nothing more than a selection and 
skilful collocation * of the language of every-day life. 
This definition which seems to exclude from the true 
style of tragedy all the ornament and artifices of poeti- 
cal diction has been but little attended to by our 
modern dramatists, and by none less than by Mr. Mil- 
man, who, whatever else may be the merits of his 
writings (and we are by no means inclined to under- 
value them), condescends but rarely to the natural or 
familiar, and, like the inhabitants of Les Landes, seems 
always most at home upon stilts. With our neighbours 
the French, who have no such thing as a poetical 

1 To collocation, indeed, much more than to selection, the ancient 
writers trusted for the dignity of their style ; as Dionysius Hali- 
carnass has well shown, Tre 



134 ANNE BOLEYN. 

language, at least since the time of their early poets, 
the adoption of this rule of the Stagirite is a matter of 
necessity, not choice. But the pedantic rigour with 
which they exclude certain words from tragedy l shows 
how willingly they would establish for it a privileged 
order of phrases, if they could. One of their dramatists, 
still living, undertook, some time since, to write a 
tragedy, of which Charles le Bel was to be the subject. 
A serious difficulty, however, presented itself. As this 
monarch, among other violent financial expedients, had 
recourse to an alteration of the coin of the realm, it 
was necessary that the word ' monnoie ' should be in- 
troduced into the dialogue ; and this, the poet feared, 
was impossible. He consulted the most enlightened 
and liberal critics, but they all, with one voice, de- 
clared against the unauthorised word, and he was at 
length obliged to give up his subject. Mr. Milman is 
hardly less select and aristocratic in his vocabulary, 
and often prefers the trouble of going round by a peri- 
phrasis to the degradation of encountering any of the 
6 populace of phrase ' on the straight road. For in- 
stance, the plebeian word f spit ' is awkwardly evaded 
by him : 

I pray'd my way 

Through mocking men to find thee. Some did spurn me, 

Did almost void their rheum on me. 

And, in one of the early scenes, where Anne Boleyn 
orders her almoner to dispose of all the luxuries of her 

1 Virgil is said by his critics to have avoided certain words, as 
too plebeian. Servius supposes that the periphrasis by which he 
describes the stork in the Georgics, ( Candida venit avis, longis 
invisa colubris,' was for the purpose of avoiding the common name 
of that bird. Scaliger, too, represents him as equally fastidious 
about the name of the cormorant ; but this is a mistake, for the 
word ' mergus ' is more than once used by him. 



ANNE BOLEYN. 135 

own table, rather than allow her to want the means of 
succouring the indigent, we have the following pompous 
circumlocution, which reminds one of the language in 
which Apuleius describes the simple process of getting 
dinner ready, ' prandium fabricatur : 9 

Go, coin those wines, barter for homelier cates 
Those candied superfluities. 

In the arrangement of the story, Mr. Milman has 
been much more skilful than his competitor ; nor do we 
observe any of that ' series of resemblances in the plot,' 
to which the latter gentleman, in his Preface, alludes. 
The only invention, as we have seen, upon which Mr. 
Grrover ventures, is in the instance of Lady Margaret 
and her unfortunate ' country gentleman,' which, though 
silly enough, is at least harmless. But we doubt 
whether the fiction, which Mr. Milman has engrafted 
upon history, can be regarded as equally innocent or 
pardonable. Not only has he conjured up a Jesuit 
some years before that Religious Society was in exist- 
ence, but he has evoked this personage for the purpose 
of loading both him and the faith to which he belongs 
with the chief odium and guilt of Anne Boleyn's murder. 
Availing himself of the mystery in which the destruction 
of all the records of the Trial has left the confession of 
Mark Smeaton with respect to the guilt of the Queen, 
Mr. Milman supposes this perjured testimony to have 
been wrung from Smeaton by the arts of a Jesuit, to 
whom he gives the name of Angelo Caraffa, and who, 
having assisted in kindling up the imagination of the 
young musician into a romantic passion for his Royal 
mistress, succeeds at length in persuading him into the 
monstrous belief that there is no other way of saving 
either her life or soul but by falsely accusing her of 
adultery, and declaring himself the partner of her guilt ! 



136 ANNE SOLEYN. 

Mr. Milman, it is true, in his Preface, takes 
care to intimate that this highly-coloured portraiture 
of Catholic fanaticism is not intended to minister to the 
No-Popery prejudices of the day, and has expressed a 
hope that he shall 6 be considered as writing of former 
times alone.' But knowing the tactics of his cloth and 
his party, in bringing the Past to bear upon the 
Present, we cannot help suspecting that the Catholic 
Question had some little share in his poetical inspira- 
tions, and that to apply the words of Dr. Johnson, in 
speaking of the Tragedy of Cato ' they who affect to 
think that the Church is in danger may also affect to 
think that a Play will preserve it.' 

At the beginning of the drama, we find the young 
minstrel Smeaton introduced, for the first time, into 
the presence of the Queen, and putting her Eoyal 
patience to the proof by singing a Theological Song, of 
no less than 144 lines in length, entitled, ' The Pro- 
testant's Hymn to the Virgin.' This extraordinary 
hymn, setting out on the presumption that the Virgin 
might expect the same sort of adoration to which she 
had been hitherto accustomed from the Papists, tells 
her fairly, in the first verse, 

To mortal name our jealous souls deny 
The incommunicable meed of Deity. 

The singer then proceeds to call her 'lowliest, as 
loveliest of mortal maids,' and continues in the same 
strain of pious compliment, 

Thee, therefore, lovelier far we deem, 1 
Than eye may see or soul may dream 

1 On this subject, * de pulchritudine B. Marias Virginis,' we beg 
leave to recommend to Mr. Milman 's notice a treatise, written by 
Nicolaus Susius, a Jesuit, in which the peculiar complexion 
((nr6xpoos, or, wheat-coloured) attributed to the Virgin by Nice- 



ANNE BOLEYN. 137 

still protesting, however, strongly against her claims to 
adoration, and, throughout the whole canticle, mixing 
together piety and familiarity, in a way that very much 
reminds us of a picture which a well-known French 
Duke exhibits to his friends, as a proof of the high 
antiquity of his family, where one of his ancestors is 
represented as taking off his hat to the Virgin, while 
a label, issuing from the Virgin's mouth, makes her 
say, ' Couvrez-vous, mon cousin.' Mr. Milman 6 se 
couvre ' in the presence most Protestantly. 

Having thus adverted to a few of what we think 
the weak points of Mr. Milman's work, it is with plea- 
sure we turn to the brighter part of his disk, and render 
justice to the numerous beauties, both of language and 
of thought, which abound in this, as in every other, 
production of his pen. His Jesuit is a powerful per- 
sonage and, though as much given to cursing as the 
Defender of the Faith was to swearing, curses well and 
irom his heart. Sometimes, indeed, his invocations to 
Hell smell overmuch of sulphur as for instance : 

The game is won ere play'd ! 
It fires beyond our hopes, the sulphurous train 
Flames up, they're hurl'd aloft, but not to Heaven. 
Wake, Hell ! and lift thy gates ; and ye, that tenant 
The deepest, darkest, most infuriate pit, 
Th' abyss of all abysses, blackest blackness, 
Where that most damning sin, the damning others, 
With direst, most remorseless expiation, 
Howls out its drear eternity, arouse 
The myriad voices of your wailing ; loud 
As when the fleshly Luther, or the chief 
Of his cursed crew have one by one gone down 
To tread your furnace chambers ! Rise ! prepare 
The throne of fire, the crown of eating flames ! 

phorus, Epiphanius, and other ecclesiastical writers, is learnedly 
inquired into and explained. 



I 3 8 ANNE BOLEYN. 

The scenes between this fanatic and Gardiner are 
written with no common power; and the following 
extract may give some idea of the vigour with which 
the poet has embodied the spirit of Jesuitism in this 
character : 

Angela. Now hear me, Prelate, glut thine ear with tidings, 
For there are dark and deep delved plots, that scape 
Even Gardiner's lynx-eyed sight thy soul shall laugh. 
The Queen 'the Boleyn the false harlot heretic 
She's in our toils lost, doom'd 

Gardiner. I know the King 
Is fallen away to a new lust, and hates 
Where once he doted. But her death ! 

Angela. What ! versed 

In courts like Gardiner, and not know how close 
Death waits upon the blasting hate of Kings 1 
I tell thee, she shall die die on a scaffold ! 
Die branded like a base adulteress ! 
Die like a heretic the Church's foe ! 
Die unabsolved, unhousel'd die for ever ! 

Gardiner. Ay, but her blameless life ; the love she wins- 
By subtle sorcery from every rank. 

Angela. Blameless ! an heretic avow'd, proclaim'd 
The nursing mother of Apostasy ! 
Heap crime on crime, load all her soul with blackness, 
Make her name hideous to the end of time ; 
Yet is she not, to a true son of the Church, 
More odious, more abominable all sins 
Are in that one ! Adultery, murder, nought 
Is wanting but desire or meet occasion, 
And the loose heart gives way. 

Gardiner. But this Jane Seymour 
Is of no better brood. 

Angela . What reck we who 

Or what she is, she shall give place t' another, 
Another still, till the fierce flame burns out, 
And shame, remorse, and horror, all the furies 



ANNE BOLEYN. 139 

That howl and madden round the guilty bed, 
Seize on the abject Monarch ! He shall lick 
The dust beneath our feet, and pay what price 
The Church ordain, for tardy reconcilement. 

Gardiner. Brother, draw near ! thy speech hath bodied 

forth 
What hath come floating o'er my secret thought. 

Angela. And own'st thou not Heaven's manifest inspira- 
tion 1 

Gardiner. So thou wilt bring to pass what Gardiner left 
In unaccomplish'd vision ! Man of men, 
What fame shall wait, what canonising glory 
On sainted Angelo. 

Angela. While Stephen Gardiner 

Must sink into the baser rank. Oh ! fear not, 
Nor jealously mistrust me, lest I cross 
Thy upward path : I have forsworn the world, 
Not with the formal oaths that burst like flax, 
But those that chain the soul with triple iron. 
Earth hath no guerdon I may covet, none 
I may enjoy. Thou, Stephen Gardiner, 
Shalt rule submissive prelates, peers and kings, 
Loftiest in station, as in mind the mightiest ; 
And a perpetual noon of golden power 
Shall blaze around thy lordly mitred state. 
I 'm girt for other journeys : at that hour, 
When all but crown'd the righteous work, this Isle 
Half bow'd again to the Holy See, I go 
Far in some savage land unknown, remote 
From civilised or reasonable life, 
From letters, arts where wild men howl around 
Their blood-stain'd altars to uplift th' unknown, 
Unlawful Crucifix : I go to pine 
With famine ; waste with slow disease ; the loathing 
And scorn of men. And when thy race is run, 
Thou, Winchester, in marble cemetery, 
Where thy cathedral roof, like some rich grove, 
Spreads o'er, and all the walls with 'scutcheons blaze, 



140 ANNE BOLEYN. 

Shalt lie. While anthem'd choirs and pealing organs, 

And incense clouds, and a bright heaven of lamps, 

Shall solemnise thy gorgeous obsequies ; 

O'er my unsepulchred and houseless bones, 

Cast on the barren beach of the salt sea, 

Or arid desert, where the vulture flaps 

Her dreary wings, shall never wandering priest 

Or bid his beads or say one passing prayer. 

Thy memory shall live in this land's records 

While the sea girds the isle ; but mine shall perish 

As utterly as some base beggar's child 

That, unbaptised, drops like abortive fruit 

Into unhallow'd grave. 

Gardiner. Impossible ! 

Home cannot waste on such wild service minds 
Like thine, nor they endure the base obedience. 

Angela. Man of this world, thou know'st not those who 

tread 
The steps of great Ignatius, those that bear 

The name of Jesus and his Cross. I've sunk 
For ever title, rank, wealth even my being ; 

And, self-annihilated, boast myself 

A limb, a nameless limb, of that vast body 

That shall bespread the world, uncheck'd, unbraced, 

Like God's own presence, everywhere, yet nowhere 

Th' invisible control, by which Rome rules 

The universal mind of man. On me 

My Father's palace gates no more shall open, 

I own no more my proud ancestral name, 

I have no property even in these weeds, 

These coarse and simple weeds I wear ; nor will, 

Nor passion, nor affection, nor the love 

Of kindred touch this earth-estranged heart. 

My personal being is absorb'd and dead. 

Thou think'st it much with cilice, scourge, and fast 

To macerate thy all too pamper'd body, 

That thy sere heart is seal'd to woman's love, 

That child shall never climb thy knees, nor call thee 



ANNE BOLEYN. 141 

His father : On the altar of my God 
I've laid a nobler sacrifice, a soul 
Conscious it might have compass'd empire. This 
I've done ; and in no brief and frantic fit 
Of youthful lust ungratified in the hour 
Of disappointed pride. A noble born 
Of Home's patrician blood, rich, letter'd, versed 
In the affairs of men ; no monkish dreamer 
Hearing Heaven's summons in ecstatic vision. 
God spoke within this heart but with the voice 
Of stern deliberate duty, and I rose 
Resolved to sail the flood, to tread the fire 
That's nought to quench all natural compunction, 
To know nor right nor wrong, nor crime nor virtue, 
But as subservient to Home's cause, and Heaven's. 
I've school'd my haughty soul to subtlest craft, 
I've strung my tender heart to bloodiest havoc, 
And stand prepared to wear the martyr's flames 
Like nuptial robes ; far worse, to drag to the stake 
My Mend, the brother of my soul if thus 
I sear the hydra heads of heresy. 

The following scene between Henry and Anne will 
enable the reader to compare, more immediately, Mr. 
Milman's mode of treating the subject with that of his 
Cambridge competitor, Mr. Grover. The Queen, it 
should be stated, had just been solicited by Cranmer to 
intercede with Henry in behalf of three venerable 
Carthusians, who, for refusing to acknowledge the 
King's supremacy, had been condemned to death. 

Queen. My Liege, 

I have been sued to be a suppliant 
For those that, fall'n beneath thine high displeasure 

King. 'Sdeath ! ye Ve our answer as I pass'd but now 
Jane Seymour was set on t' entreat our mercy ; 
We yielded not, nor thought of being wearied 



142 ANNE BOLEYN. 

At every step with the old tedious tale 
Art answer'd 1 

Queen. What I am I owe your Grace, 

And in most deep humility confess it \ 
But being as I am, your Grace's wife, 
I knew not that my maid's rejected prayer 
Precluded further speech 

King. Why, how now, wayward ! 

Your maid I good truth, Sir Thomas Boleyn's daughter's 
Right nobly served. I'd have- you know, proud woman, 
What the King gives the King may take away 
Who raised up one from dust may raise another. 
Look to thyself, I say thou may'st have cause ; 
Look, and be wise be humble. For your Grace 
We've business in our Council not a word 
Our Queen's our subject still. 

Queen (alone}. And this is he, 

The flower of the world's chivalry, most courtly 
Where met the splendour of all courts ! When Europe 
Sent its three Sovereigns to that golden field, 
Which won all eyes with liberal noble bearing ? 
Which charni'd all ears with high and gracious speech? 
Which made all hearts his slaves by inbred worth 
But English Henry 1 by his pattern all 
Moved, spoke, rode, tilted, shaped their dress, their language, 
And he that most resembled England's King 
Was kingliest in the esteem of all. This he, 
That lay whole hours before my worshipp'd feet, 
Making the air melodious with his words 1 
So fearful to offend, having offended 
So fearful of his pardon, not myself 
More jealous of my maiden modesty ; 
The bridegroom of my youth, my infant's Father ! 
Ah ! me, my rash and inconsiderate speech, 
My pride, hath wrought from his too hasty nature 
This shame upon mine head : he'll turn, he'll come 
My prodigal back to mine heart if not, 
I'm born his subject, sworn before high Heaven 



ANNE BOLEYN. 143 

His faithful wife ; then let him cast me from him, 

Spurn, trample me to dust the foe, the stranger, 

That owns no law of kindred, blood, or duty, 

Is taught, where every word is Heaven's own oracle, 

To love where most he's hated. I will live 

On the delicious memory of the past, 

And bless him so for my few years of bliss, 

My lips shall find no time for harsh reproach ; 

I'll be as one of those sweet flowers, that crush'd 

By the contemptuous foot, winds closer round it, 

And breathes in every step its richest odours. 

We shall add but one more extract the speech of 
Anne Boleyn, when, having landed at the Tower, she is 
about to enter her prison. The touch of pathos at the 
conclusion is peculiarly happy : 

Kingston (to the Guard). Advance your halberds. 

Queen. Oh ! sir, pause one look, 

One last long look, to satiate all my senses. 
Oh ! thou blue cloudless canopy, just tinged 
With the faint amber of the setting sun, 
Where one by one steal forth the modest stars 
To diadem the sky : thou noble river, 
Whose quiet ebb, not like my fortune, sinks 
With gentle downfall, and around the keels 
Of those thy myriad barks makest passing music : 
Oh ! thou great silent city, with thy spires 
And palaces, where I was once the greatest, 
The happiest I, whose presence made a tumult 
In all your wondering streets and jocund marts : 
But most of all, thou cool and twilight air, 
That art a rapture to the breath ! The slave, 
The beggar, the most base down-trodden outcast, 
The plague-struck livid wretch, there's none so vile, 
So abject, in your streets, that swarm with life 
They may inhale the liquid joy Heaven breathes 
They may behold the rosy evening sky 



144 ANNE BOLEYN. 

They may go rest their free limbs where they will : 

But I but I, to whom this summer world 

Was all bright sunshine ; I, whose time was noted 

But by succession of delights -- Oh ! Kingston, 

Thou dost remember, thou wert then Lieutenant. 

'Tis now how many years 1 my memory wanders 

Since I set forth from yon dark low-brow'd porch, 

A bride a monarch's bride King Henry's bride ! 

Oh ! the glad pomp, that burn'd upon the waters 

Oh ! the rich streams of music ,that kept time 

With oars as musical the people's shouts, 

That call'd Heaven's blessings on my head, in sounds 

That might have drown'd the thunders -- I've more need 

Of blessing now, and not a voice would say it. 

This speech, though elegant as a poetical exercise, 
is both too long and too laboured for the situation of 
the speaker ; nor do we see much in it that would 
induce us to regret its reduction to the more natural, 
as well as more dramatic limits, of the last few simple 
exclamations of Iphigenia : 



'Iw lit) ! 

Atoe TS ^eyyoc, ertpov 

"Erepov atoiva, 

Kcu palpal' oiKi]ao}JLV. 

Xalpe fjioij fyiXov <f)aog I 

Oh, light of day ! Oh firmament of Jove ! 

Another life I seek another world 

Must be my dwelling now dear Light, farewell ! 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 145 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 1 
[OCTOBER 1827.] 

THERE is no subject that we would sooner recommend 
to any male or female author, in distress for a topic, 
than a History of the Private Theatres of Europe. It 
has been said of Gribbon, that his work is ' like the 
great whirlpool of Norway, which sucks into its eddy 
bears, whales, ships, and everything that comes within 
any possible reach of its engulfing streams ; ' and 
this, after all, in much humbler walks of literature 
than that of Gribbon, is the grand secret of book- 
making. To find a subject which is either capable, or 
may be made so by a little management, of pressing all 
other possible subjects into its service, is the grand 
desideratum to which the quarto-monger and the man 
of many volumes should aspire. Bayle, we know, con- 
trived, in his ' Thoughts on the Comet', to make the 
world acquainted with his thoughts on every other 
existent topic, from Jesuits and Jansenists, and the 
Peace of Nimeguen, to Crusades, Demons, and the ever 
memorable Bishop of Condom. Berkeley has converted 
his Essay on Tar Water to purposes no less omnigenous 
and incongruous ; the principles of attraction and 
repulsion, the story of Isis and Osiris, the Anima 
Mundi of Plato, and the Doctrine of the Trinity, all 
administered to the reader through the somewhat 
nauseous medium of Tar Water. 

With much less abuse of the privilege of discursive- 
ness than has been assumed by either of those two 

1 The Private Theatre of Kilkenny, with Introductory Observations 
on other Private Theatres in Ireland, before it was opened. 4to. pp. 
134- 1825. 

L 



146 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

celebrated sceptics, 1 the author of a History of Private 
Theatricals might interweave with his subject, not only 
an account of the rise and progress of the drama in 
the different countries of Europe, but by availing him- 
self of the splendid names which have, from time to 
time, illustrated the annals of Private Theatres, he 
might, with perfect relevancy, branch out into such a 
rich variety of anecdote and biography, as few subjects 
even among the best adapted for this sort of literary 
Macedoine could furnish. By a converse of the pro- 
position, c all the world's a stage,' he might, with little 
difficulty, succeed in making his ' stage all the world.' 

Among the ancient Greeks there are, we believe, 
no traces of private theatrical performances ; and the 
reason may be, that as, in the eyes of that enlightened 
people, no stigma attached itself to the profession of 
an actor, the wealthy and high-born might indulge, 
not only with impunity but with honour, in their taste 
for the practice of that art on the boards of the public 
theatres. ' It was allowed,' says Montaigne, c to persons 
of the greatest quality to follow the profession of the 
stage in Greece.' The testimony of Livy to the same 
point is decisive : speaking of the tragic actor, Aristo, 
he says, ' Huic et genus et fortuna honesta erant, nee 
ars, quia nihil tale apud Grsecos pudori est, ea 
deformabat.' Some of the greatest dramatic poets of 
Greece, ^Eschylus, Sophocles, and Aristophanes, thought 
it not unbecoming to take a part in the representation 
of their immortal works ; nor did the fellow-countrymen 
and contemporaries of Demosthenes feel themselves 
disgraced by having a great actor, Aristodemus, their 
representative at the Court of Philip. 

1 ' That all the arguments of Berkeley (says Hume), though 
otherwise intended, are, in reality, merely sceptical, appears from 
this, that they admit of no answer, and produce no conviction.' 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 147 

This high appreciation of the ministers of the 
Dramatic Muse was worthy of the taste and liberal 
feeling of such a people. If the interpreters of the 
oracles of the gods derived a character of sacredness 
from their very task, those who gave utterance to the 
written spells of genius might with equal justice 
participate in the homage paid to genius itself. 

Far different was the estimation in which actors 
were held among the Eomans. Their profession was 
pronounced by the law to be infamous, 1 and no person 
of free birth was to be found among its members. The 
pathetic address of Laberius, the Koman knight, on 
being forced by Caesar to appear on the public stage, is 
well known : 

Twice thirty years I've borne a spotless name, 
But foul dishonour brands, at length, my brow ; 

From home this morn a Koman knight I came, 
And home a jester I'm returning now. 

Ah, would that I had died, ere men could say, 

He has outlived his honour by a day. 2 

Where such ignominy was attached to the practice 
of acting in public, it was natural that the taste for 
theatrical personation, which is sure to spring up in all 

1 The defence which a writer in the Memoires de VAcademie at- 
tempts to set up for the illiberal law of the Komans, is mere sophis- 
try : < Les Comediens n'etoient reputes infames a Home que par le 
vice de leur naissance, et non pas a cause de leur profession ; et si 
elle n'eut 6te exercee que par des hommes libres, ils auroient eu 
autant de respect que leur art en merite.' Whether the law pro- 
nounced the profession itself to be infamous, or attained the same 
end by allowing none but infamous persons to practise it, makes 
assuredly no difference in the real state of the case. 

2 ' Ego, bis tricenis annis actis sine nota, 
Eques Romanus ex lare egressus meo, 
Domum revertar mimus : nimirum hoc die 
Uno plus vixi mihi quam vivendum fuit.' 
r 2 



148 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

cultivated communities, should seek a vent for its 
indulgence in private performances. Accordingly, we 
find that there was a species of satirical drama, called 
Atellanse or Exodia, in which the free and noble youths 
of Rome not only took delight to perform, but, with 
the true spirit of aristocratic exclusiveness, reserved 
the right of appearing in such dramas wholly to them- 
selves ; nor would suffer them, as Livy tells us, ' to be 
polluted by common histrions.' 

On the arrival of dramatic poesy among the Italians, 
it was in private theatres and, for a long period, in 
private theatres only that any advances in the culti- 
vation of the art were made. The slow growth, indeed, 
of this branch of literature in that country, and the 
few fruits of any excellence which it has even yet put 
forth, would seem to warrant the conclusion to which 
the French critics have long since come, that the 
Italians are not, any more than their great ancestors, 
a dramatic people. It is certain that their literature 
had produced its brightest and most desirable wonders 
before even the ordinary scenery and decorations of a 
theatre were introduced among them ; and the poetry 
of Dante and Petrarca, and the prose of Boccaccio, had 
carried their beautiful language to its highest pitch of 
perfection, near a century and a half before a single 
play in this language was attempted. Nothing can, 
indeed, more strongly prove how little dramatic ideas 
or associations were afloat in the time of Dante, than 
that he should have ventured to call his shadowy and 
awful panorama of Hell, Heaven, and Purgatory a 
< Comedy.' 

During all this interval, from the time of the great 
triumvirate of the fourteenth century to near the close 
of the fifteenth, an occasional representation of a play 
of Plautus or Terence, with now and then a drama, 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 149 

written in the same language, by some academician of 
Siena, 1 and acted, or rather recited, by himself and 
his brethren, were the only signs of life that the 
dramatic muse of Italy exhibited. At length, towards 
the end of the fifteenth century, the poet and scholar 
Politian so bepraised during his lifetime, and so 
wholly unread almost ever since presented his country- 
men with the first native Italian tragedy ; 2 and the 
Orfeo was acted before Lorenzo the Magnificent, amid 
the acclamations of all the wits and beauties of Florence. 
What an audience might not imagination conjure 
up at a private performance of the Orfeo ! ' Who is 
he, with the princely air and manly form, 3 to whose 
remarks Lorenzo de Medici listens with such deference ?' 
' It is the all-accomplished Lord of Mirandola, the 
phenix of the wits of his age, to whom every science, 
every art, every language is familiar, but upon whose 
young brow the seal of death is already fixed, as the 
astrologers have already pronounced that he will not 
pass his thirty-second year.' 4 ' And that child, with 

1 The academicians of Siena were long famous for their thea : 
trical exhibitions. The Intronati of that learned city played the 
' Amor Costante ' of the Archbishop Piccolomini before Charles V., 
when he visited Siena in 1536; and the Ortensio ' of the same 
archiepiscopal dramatist was performed by them before Cosmo I., 
in 1560. 

2 La premiere tragedie qui parut sur le Theatre, en bon style, 
et avec quelqne idee d'une action regulierement conduite, est 
1'Orphee de Ange Politien.' Ginguere. Doctor Burney traces the 
origin of the Italian Opera to the Orfeo. 

3 < H etoit le plus bel homme de son siecle il avoit la mine 
haute, la taille extraordinaire.' Varillas, Histoire Secrete de la 
Maison de Medicis. 

4 < Les Astrologues dresserent 1'Horoscope du Prince de la Miran- 
dole, et trouverent deux choses remarquables ; 1'une, qu'il ne met- 
troit pas la derniere main & son ouvrage centre eux, et 1'autre, qu'il 
ne passeroit pas 1'sige de trente-deux ans. Us lui envoyerent signi- 
fier cet arret, dont il se mocqua. Mais 1'evenement justifia leur 
prediction.' Varillas. 



150 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

the cardinal's hat in his hand, whose red shoes and 
robes proclaim him already a counsellor of the Pontiff? ' 
6 In that boy you see the future Leo the Tenth, 1 the 
destined ornament of the Papacy, its first and its last.* 
' But him yonder, with the neck a little awry ; 2 with 
that portentous nose and purblind eyes ? ' 3 ' 'Tis 
Politian himself, the author of the tragedy ; and she, 
that fair maid, to whom he has just handed a Greek 
extempore, which she reads with the same facility with 
which it was written, is the beautiful and learned 
Alessandra Scala herself a distinguished private 
actress, as the verses of Politian, on her performance of 
the Electra of Sophocles, testify. 4 With how little 
success the poet woos her may be collected from his 
extempore : 

Ka/)7rov epol TroQiovn, av rt' avftta. fyvXXa. TE jjiovr'ov 
Awp?7, orjpaivovff* orn /ittr^v iroj'eu). 

To teach me, that in hopeless suit 

I do but waste my sighing hours, 
Cold maid, whene'er I ask for fruit, 

Thou givest me nought but leaves and flowers.' 

The example set by Politian was soon followed ; 
and, an Italian comedy being still a desideratum, the 
want was, not long after, supplied by Cardinal Bibbiera, 
whose clever but licentious comedy, the Calandra, was 
honoured with no less distinguished a place of repre- 
sentation than the private apartments of Leo the Tenth 

1 Leo was nominated a cardinal in his thirteenth year. 
2 Sed quid te cruciat, reflexa colla 
Si interdum gero ? Polit. 

3 ' Facie nequaquam ingenua et liberali, ab enormi prgesertim 
naso, subluscoque oculo perabsurdo.' Paul. Jov. 

4 There are several poems in praise of this lady among the works 
of Politian ; and there is also an answer of hers, which consider- 
ing that it is Greek is very modest and unassuming. 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 151 

at the Vatican. 1 Gay times ! when cardinals wrote 
' right merrye ' farces, and popes were their audience. 
Had Leo contented himself with the classic indulgences 
of this world, without opening a mart for indulgences 
in the next, Luther would have wanted his best card, 
and the papacy might have remained a little longer 
unshaken. 

The illusions of scenic decoration which had been 
first introduced, it is said, by Pomponius Lsetus, in a 
play performed by his scholars at Eome 2 were at this 
period not only universally brought into play, but 
assisted by all that splendour and pageantry in which 
the luxurious prelates and nobles of Italy delighted. 
Among the givers of these dramatic fetes, the Dukes 
of Ferrara shone pre-eminent, and Hercules I. was the 
author of an Italian translation of the Mena3ehmi, 
which was acted at Ferrara in 1486. Ariosto furnished 
the design for the theatre of the court, which stood on 
the spot now occupied by the Chiesa Nuova ; and 
' such.' says Gibbon, ' was the enthusiasm of the new 
arts, that one of the sons of Alfonso I. did not disdain 
to speak a prologue on this stage.' 3 

But, among all the amateur actors of this period, 
he of whom the lovers of private theatricals have most 
reason to be proud is the great Nicholas Machiavel, 
he, the mighty searcher of courts, who stripped the 
leaves off the sceptre of tyrants, and showed the naked 
iron underneath. This author of the profoundest book 
ever written was not only a comic writer of first-rate 
power, but a comic actor, whose mimicry made car- 

1 Baldastarre Peruzzi is said to have painted the scenery for 
this representation at the Vatican. 

2 By some the invention of painted scenes is attributed to 
Cardinal Kiario, nephew of the unprincipled Sixtus IV. 

3 Antiquities of the House of Brunswick. 



152 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

dinals and popes (as he himself expresses it) ' smascel- 
larsi della risa.' How delightedly might a historian of 
private theatres dwell on all the details of the corre- 
spondence between Gruicciardini l and Machiavel, re- 
specting the plan of the former to induce his friend to 
visit him at Modena, by getting up a representation of 
the c Mandragora,' for his amusement. The supper of 
Machiavel at Florence, with the cantatrice, la Barbera ; 
his proposals to her to accompany him to the carnival 
at Modena, and his anxiety for her assistance in the 
cast of his comedy, all these little details derive a 
preciousness from the reputation of the men concerned 
in them, and from that charm which genius communi- 
cates to everything connected with its name. 

Nor was it only among the profane ones of the 
world that this rage for private acting diffused itself. 
Even the recesses of the monastery and the convent 
were not sacred from the * soft infection,' and the mask 
of Thalia was often found in the same wardrobe with 
the cowl and the veil. The wit of Plautus was not 
thought too coarse for the lips of the monks of S. 
Stefano, 2 and even the fair nuns of Venice were allowed 
to pour forth their souls in tragedy. 3 As might be 
expected, however, some of these sequestered young 
actresses showed a disposition to convert their fictitious 
loves into real ones, and an order was accordingly issued 
prohibiting all such performances in convents, ' per 
1'indecenza della rappresentazione e delle maschere,' 
and restraining the poor stage-struck nuns, in future, to 
the innocent indulgence of a dull oratorio. 

1 The historian, who was then Governor of Modena. 

2 There is a published translation of the Asinaria of Plautus, 
which, as appears from the title-page, was * rappresentata nel monas- 
tero di S. Stefano in Venezia, 1528.' 

3 Addison speaks of the theatrical amusements of the nuns at the 
time when he visited Venice, 1701. 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 153 

As this passion for private acting increased, new 
inventions and new luxuries were devised, to give a zest 
to the pursuit. The theatrical dilettanti of Vicenza, 
not content with their temporary stage in the Palazzo 
della Ragi one, applied to their brother academician, 
Palladio, to furnish them with the design of a theatre, 
worthy of the classic objects of their institution; c ad- 
dattata ai loro geniali esercizi, fra quali v'era quello 
delle tragiche rappresentazioni.' In the beautiful 
structure which he planned for them was performed, in 
the year 1 585, the tragedy of (Edipus ; and the interest 
of the representation was, we are told, most touchingly 
increased by the circumstance of the sightless king 
being played by Luigi Grroto, the ' blind man of Adria,' 
as he was called, himself a dramatic poet of no ordinary 
celebrity and power. 

But it was not alone amid the pomp of a ducal hall 
or surrounded by the forms of Palladian architecture 
that these worshippers of the drama indulged their 
devotions. That fine canopy, which the evening sky of 
Italy affords, not unfrequently formed their only theatre. 
For pastoral subjects, such as the Aminta and the 
Pastor P^ido, the natural scenery of gardens and groves 
was thought to be the most appropriate ; and vestiges 
of one of these rural theatres, in which the sweet dia- 
logue of Ariosto and Tasso was recited by the ' donne ' 
and ' cavalieri ' of old, might, till very lately, be traced 
in the garden of the Villa Madama at Eome. 

It is not within the scope of our present design to 
do more than merely intimate the many interesting 
details, into which a more extended research on this 
subject would lead. To the brilliant names, therefore, 
already mentioned, as having thrown a lustre over the 
annals of private acting, we shall content ourselves with 
adding a few more, as they occur to our recollection, 



154 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

without attending very much to form in the enumera- 
tion, or dwelling, at any great length, on the peculiar 
merits or histories of the personages. 

Lorenzo de Medici, on the marriage of his daughter 
Maddalena, wrote a sacred drama called ' S. Giovanni 
e S. Paolo,' which was performed in his palace by hi& 
own children. 

Cinthio, the novelist, to whom Shakespeare was in- 
debted for some of his stories, had a private theatre, 
we are told, in his own house, where the most celebrated 
of all his own tragedies, 'Orbacche,' was performed, 
with splendid scenic decorations, before Hercules II., 
Duke of Ferrara. 

About the same period, Luigi Cornaro, vivacious 
celebrity having not yet, we presume, taken to mea- 
suring his wine by ounces gave a dramatic fete under 
his own roof, at which one of the plays of L'Anguillara 
was performed. 

Chiabrera, misnamed the Pindar of Italy, was one 
of a classic society at Kome, called 6 the Humourists/ 
who devoted themselves (says Muratori) ' to the com- 
.position and performance of beautiful and ingenious 
comedies.' The Sala, in which their meetings were 
held, still existed in the time of Muratori. 

Beolco, one of the academic fraternity of the Infiam- 
mati, is said, by the historian of Padua, to have sur- 
passed Plautus in composing comedies, and Roscius in 
representing them. The talent, indeed, of this Infiam- 
mato for acting, was thought worthy of being com- 
memorated, even on his fcomb : ' Nullis in scribendis 
agendisque comcediis, ingenio, facundia, aut arte, 
secundo.' 

Salvator Eosa was, it appears, a comic actor of 
infinite vivacity ; and his personation of Formica, and 
of the Coviello of the ancient farces, is said to have 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 155 

thrown the Immortal city into convulsions of gaiety. 1 
Another Neapolitan painter, of much less celebrity, 
Andria Belvedere, was, about the beginning of the 
eighteenth century, at the head of a society of theatrical 
amateurs at Naples, and diffused such a zeal for the 
drama among his fellow-citizens, that (says M. Amaury 
Duval) 2 Ton vit plusieurs seigneurs, par amour pour 
cet art, elever dans leurs palais des theatres particuliers.' 

The Duke Annibale Marchase, who resigned his 
government of Salerno in the year 1740, and retired to 
the monastery of the holy fathers of the Oratory at 
Naples, 3 is said to have written his sacred dramas for 
the private theatre of that holy retreat, from whose 
performances the Oratorio, or Scriptural opera, derives 
both its origin and name. 

Coming down to a still later period, we find the 
' Serse' of Bettinelli acted, for the first time, in a private 
theatre at Verona ; the principal character of the piece 
being performed by the Marquis Albergati, who was, 
himself, the author of various comedies, and so accom- 
plished an actor that Groldoni says of him, ' non vi era 
in Italia comico ne dilettante chi rappresentasse al pari 
di lui gli eroi tragici e gli amorosi nelle commedie.' 

Lastly, we have Alfieri, the great boast of the 
Italian stage, performing in his own Antigone at Rome, 
with the beautiful and majestic Duchess of Zagarolo, 
establishing afterwards his little theatre on the Lungo 
d'Arno, near the Ponte S. Trinita, at Florence, where 
he acted successively the parts of Filippo, Carlo, and 

1 See Lady Morgan's lively account of these exhibitions in her 
life of this painter. 

2 Memoires sur le Royaume de Naples. Belvedere was followed 
by Amenta, the comic poet, who died in 1719. ' Comnae Belvedere,' 
says M. Duval, ' il faisoit jouer chez lui ses propres pieces par des- 
amateurs qu'il avoit formes a 1'art du Theatre.' 

3 IS Oratorio de' PP. di 8. Filippo Neri. 



156 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

Saul, in his own plays ; and, finally, taking his leave 
for ever of the boards at the feast of the Illumination at 
Pisa, where, says the poet, ' ebbi la pueril vanagloria 
di andarvi, e la recitai per una sola volta, e per 1'ultima, 
la mia diletta parte del Saul, e la rimasi, quanto al 
teatro, morto da Ke.' 

In France, as well as in Italy, it was on the boards 
of private theatres that the first glimmerings, the 
6 primus oriens,' of the drama appeared. The only 
difference was, that in Italy, as we have seen, the 
originators of the art were scholars and nobles, while in 
France they were humble bourgeois and priests. ' C'est 
a la lettre,' says Suard, ' que Ton peut dire que notre 
comedie naquit dans le sein de 1'Eglise.' l Excited by 
the example of those religious shows, which, in the 
fourteenth century, were exhibited in different parts of 
Europe by the pilgrims who had returned from the 
Holy Land, some pious citizens of Paris formed them- 
selves into a society (on the model of the Christian 
theatre, instituted by Gregory .Nazianzene) for the 
purpose of improving upon these rude spectacles. 
Having established a sort of theatre at St. Maur, near 
Vincennes, they there continued for some time to attract 
audiences of the faithful, and even to wean away crowds 
of good Christians from less amusing places of devotion. 

Voltaire, who has thought proper, in an unusual fit 
of charity, to vindicate the scriptural dramas of this 
period from the charges of absurdity brought against 
them, assures us that they were performed with a 
solemnity not unworthy of their sacred subjects ; ' il y 
avait,' he says, ' sur le theatre beaucoup plus de pompe 
et d'appareil que nous n'en avons jamais vu. La 
troupe bourgeoise etait composee de plus de cent acteurs 

1 Melanges de Litterature. 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 157 

independamment des assistans, des gagistes, et des 
machinistes.' 

The priests, naturally becoming a little jealous of 
these showy competitors, thought it the safest policy at 
length to court an alliance with them. The hours of 
prayer were altered so as to suit those of the theatre ; 
reverend pens volunteered to dramatise new subjects 
from the Scriptures ; and priests not only became 
managers of this devotional theatre, but condescended 
without scruple to appear as actors on its stage. It 
was not long, however, before this union between the 
Church and the drama was dissolved ; and it is perhaps 
on the principle of family quarrels being invariably the 
most violent that actors and priests have continued on 
such deadly terms of hostility ever since. 

The drama, being thus disengaged from religion, 
soon ' stooped its wing ' towards an humbler and more 
congenial region, and in the affairs of this world found 
its most legitimate quarry. A society of private actors, 
styling themselves * Enfans sans soucy,' was instituted 
about the beginning of the reign of Charles VI., and 
still nourished, after an interval of a hundred years, in 
the time of Marot, the poet. The professed object of 
their representations which were called Sotties, or 
Sottises, and answered probably to our idea of farces 
was to satirise good-humouredly the manners and 
vices of the age, and particularly those of the classes 
always most obnoxious, the nobility and higher clergy. 

The most brilliant period of this merry fraternity 
was under the gentle reign of Louis XII., who had the 
good sense to tolerate their sallies, even when directed 
against himself. To judge from Marot's description of 
them this charming French poet having apparently 
lived much in their society they were, in general, 
young men of wealth and condition, and must have 



158 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

contributed, in no small degree, to prepare the way for 
the birth of a regular theatre in France. 

During the long interval that elapsed between these 
rude beginnings and the sudden maturity of the drama 
in the beginning of the seventeenth century, when the 
Muse of Tragedy sprung at once, full-armed, from the 
brain of Corneille, all the essays in this department of 
literature were confined to the private theatres and 
universities. The plays acted in the colleges of Paris 
were a source of constant irritation to the higher 
powers ; and we find decrees without end, not only 
from the principals of the university, but from the 
Parliament, forbidding (particularly at the annual 
return of the Fete des Kois) the representation of any 
4 farces, momeries, ni sottises,' among the students. 
The reason given for these anti-dramatic interferences 
was one which, in all times and in all countries, has 
teen made the pretext for the incursions of power upon 
intellect : ' La precaution etoit d'autant plus neces- 
saire, que les exemples du passe faisoient craindre, que, 
dans ces jeux folatres, on ne s'emancipat a parler con- 
tre le gouvernement, et contre les premieres personnes 
de 1'Etat.' l 

Sometimes these collegiate performances were made 
the medium of theological satire ; as in the instance 2 of 
a comedy played at the College of Navarre, in which 
Marguerite de Valois (on account of the supposed 
leaning of that celebrated Princess towards the Kefor- 
mation) was represented under the shape of a fury of 
hell, a piece of priestly pleasantry for which, on a com- 
plaint to the King, the learned amateurs were forthwith 
cast into prison. 

Few names of any distinguished celebrity appear 

1 Histoire de V Universite de Paris, torn. i. p. 191. 

2 Another instance may be seen in Bayle, art. Schorus. 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 159 

among the private actors of this period ; but there is 
one worth whole millions of university pedants, who 
will be read as long as racy language, attaching egotism, 
and philosophy without pretension, have any charms 
for mankind. ' I played,' says Montaigne, c the chiefest 
parts in the Latin tragedies of Buchanan, Gruerente, 
and Muretus, that were presented in our College of 
Guienne, with very great applause ; wherein Andreas 
Groveanus, our principal, as in all other parts of his 
undertaking, was, without comparison, the best of his 
employment in France, and I was looked upon as one 
of the chief actors. 'Tis an exercise that I do not dis- 
approve in young people of condition, and have since 
seen our Princes, by the example of the ancients, in 
person handsomely and commendably perform these 
services.' 

It was in the year 1552 that the first regular 
tragedy, the Cleopatre of lodelle, made its appearance 
in France. Having been first acted before the King at 
the Hotel de Eeims, it was afterwards performed by 
the author and his friends at the College of Boncour. 
4 I was there present myself (says Pasquier), in com- 
pany with the great Turnelus. All the actors were 
men of name, and Remy de Belleau and Jean de la 
Peruse played the principal parts.' 

Of the merit of the dramatic pieces that succeeded 
this first attempt almost all of which, as Suard tells 
us, were performed ' sur des theatres particuliers ' 
the reader may form some idea from a specimen or two 
of their plots and dialogue. In the tragedy of 'La 
Force du Sang,' the heroine, Leocadie not having, as 
yet, the fear of the unities before her eyes is seduced 
in the first act of the play, confined in the fourth, and 
steps forth, the mother of a fine seven-year-old boy, in 
the fifth. In another tragedy, founded on the loves of 



160 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

Dido and -ZEneas, by Scuderi (a wretched pretender, 
who was by a Court cabal set above Corneille), the 
Trojan hero, during his scene with the enamoured 
Queen in the cave, having bethought him of the state 
of the weather, walks forth to see whether it has cleared 
up, and returns saying, 

Madame, il ne pleut plus votre Majeste sort 1 

From the time of Louis XIV. downward, the annals 
of private theatres afford a still more ample field for 
discursiveness and research. Amidst the projects of 
ambition and the plots of bigotry, through all the war 
of priests, philosophers, economists, and courtiers, down 
to the very brink of that Eevolution towards which all 
were hurrying, we find the practice of private acting 
prevalent throughout, and enlisting under its gay 
banner almost every name that high station, genius, or 
misfortune, has rendered celebrated. 

The private theatre of Madame Maintenon, on a 
night when ( Esther ' or c Athalie ' was performed, affords, 
in itself, a gallery of historical portraits, where our 
attention is equally divided between the audience and 
the poet between Louis and his sanctified mistress on 
one side, and Racine, prostituting his fine genius to 
their bigotry and vanity, 1 on the other. Imagination 
carries us through the rehearsals of these honourable 
performances ; we see the actor Baron courteously 
keeping down his powers to the level of those of his 
amateur pupils ; we see Racine himself giving instruc- 
tions to his Athalie, the fair Madame de Caylas, with 
whose ' soavita e 1'altre grazie,' we are told by an eye- 
witness, 2 he was so captivated. In 1702, a few years 

1 The allusions in the Esther to Madame de Montespan and the 
He vocation of the Edict of Nantes, are an eternal disgrace to 
Racine. 

8 The Abate Conti, who translated the Athalie into Italian. 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 161 

after the death of Racine, when this consummate tragedy 
was acted before the King, the part of Josabat was per- 
formed by the Duchesse de Bourgogne, and that of 
Abner by the accomplished and dissolute Duke of 
Orleans, afterwards Regent. 

In the subsequent reign we find another Duke of 
Orleans, the grandson of the Regent, and the father of 
Egalite., distinguishing himself by his superior talents 
as a comic actor. 1 Besides his various performances at 
Bagnolet where, till the sale of this chateau, he main- 
tained a regular theatrical establishment we trace him 
acting in the ' Philosophe Marie ' at St. Cloud, and 
afterwards before Mesdames de France, in the now 
ruined chateau of Bellevue. The piece performed on 
the latter occasion was ' Les Trois Cousines,' the Due 
de Chartres, as he was then, acting Delorme, and 
Madame de Pompadour taking the part of Collette ; 
and when this adroit mistress of the monarch, looking 
earnestly at her royal lover, sung the words, 

Mais pour un amant cheri 
Tromper tuteur ou mari, 
La bonne aventure, &c., 

6 one may easily guess ' (says Colle, who relates the 
circumstance) ' what was passing in the minds of all 
the audience at the moment.' 

The details of the fetes given by this dramatic 
Duke of Orleans at Villers-Cotteret, of the comedies in 
which he performed there with Madame de Montesson 
and Mesdames de Segur and Barbantane, and of the 
love that sprung up out of these festivities with Ma- 
dame de Montesson, to the great grief of his former 
fellow-actress and mistress, Marquise, all this gossip of 

1 ' C'est le plus excellent acteur,' says Colle, 'etle plus vrai, que 
j'aie vu.' 

M 



1 62 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

the day may be found in Colle, and other writers, and 
would not a little enliven the chapter on royal green- 
rooms, in such a history of private theatricals as we 
have suggested. 

But, however amusing these ducal exhibitions may 
have been, some of the performances that took place, 
at the same period, in circles less elevated by rank, 
were far more interesting ; and the little theatre of 
Voltaire at Paris, where he performed the part of 
Cicero, in his own ; Kome Sauvee,' calls up associations 
in the minds of all lovers of genius, before which the 
splendour of Bagnolet and St. Cloud fades into nothing. 
6 When this great man (says Condorcet) repeated the 
beautiful lines in which Cicero excuses his own love of 
fame, 

Remains, j'aime la gloire, et ne veux point m'en taire, &c., 

the character and the actor seemed one; and the 
delighted auditory almost doubted 'whether it was 
Cicero or Voltaire that stood before them, avowing and 
pleading for this weakness of great minds.' The 
tragedian Le Kain, whose splendid talents, by the way, 
Voltaire first discovered and brought into notice, 
having by chance seen him acting among a company of 
amateur tradesmen, 1 thus speaks of the performance of 
Cicero by his patron : ' I think it is not possible that 
any one could be more true, more pathetic, or more 
enthusiastic than M. de Voltaire' in this part.' 

So strong, indeed, was Voltaire's fancy for private 
acting that, wherever he went, a theatre seemed always 
a necessary adjunct to his establishment. His plays at 
Femey, and his gay suppers of a hundred covers after- 

1 See the whole of this anecdote in Le Rain's interesting 
account of his acquaintance with Voltaire, given by Condorcet, 
vol. ii. 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 163 

wards, attracted company, we are told, from a distance 
of twenty leagues round. When at Berlin, he used to 
indulge his dramatic propensity by performing tragedy 
with the brothers and sisters of the King ; and, during 
his residence at Paris, a large room above his own 
apartment was converted into a theatre, in which he 
made his nieces act with Le Kain. 

While the philosopher of Ferney assumed the 
buskin with such success, the citizen of Greneva, it 
appears, attempted the same accomplishment, and 
failed ; not even Madame d'Epinay could make any- 
thing of an actor of him. * Malgre ma betise et ma 
gaucherie,' he says, in his Confessions, ( Madame d'Epi- 
nay voulut me mettre des amusements de la Chevrette, 
chateau pres de Saint-Denis, appartenant a M. de 
Bellegarde. II y avoit un theatre ou Ton jouoit sou- 
vent des pieces. On me chargea d'un role que 
j'etudiais six mois sans relache, et qu'il fallut me souffler 
d'un bout a 1'autre, a la representation. Apres cette 
epreuve, on ne me donna plus de role.' It was, per- 
haps, jealousy of the superior talents of Voltaire in this 
line that impelled Kousseau to inveigh so violently 
against the plays of Ferney. 

To these few notices of the state of private acting 
in the reign of Louis XV. may be added the account 
given by Marmontel of the performances at the house 
of M. de la Popliniere, the rich financier, at Passy ; 
as also the details of the magnificent fetes given at 
Pantin, by the Opera-dancer, Mademoiselle Guimard, 
for whose superb theatre some of the 'Proverbes 
Dramatiques ' of Carmonlet were written. Nor should 
the historian pass over in silence the theatre of M. 
Trudaine, on whose boards 'Les Accidents, ou les 
Abbes,' a piece considered by Colle, its author, too 
licentious to be printed with his other works, was yet 

M 2 



1 64 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

thought innocent enough to be acted in the presence 
of two bishops one of them holder of the Feuille des 
Benefices. ' There was also, I think,' says Colle, ' a 
third bishop there, whose name I forget, but of the 
other two I am certain.' 

In the subsequent reign the Court gave the tone in 
acting, as in all other sorts of amusements. Never was 
there a more flowery path to ruin than that of the 
unfortunate Marie Antoinette ; nor is it possible to 
read of the festivities of Marly and of the Little Trianon 
without shuddering to think of the dreadful tragedies 
that followed. The practice, so prevalent at that 
period, of throwing ridicule upon all established insti- 
tutions (a fate for which established institutions had 
to thank their own corruption and folly), was, with 
most short-sighted levity, adopted at Court ; and one 
of the favourite amusements of the Queen and her gay 
companions was to parody the sittings of the Parliament l 
in a sort of mock-heroic pantomime, one of the princes 
playing the part of President, and the beau Dillon, 
Besenvald, &c., representing ludicrously the other 
personages. It was on one of these occasions that the 
role of Procureur-General was sustained by a youth, 
who little then foresaw the destiny that awaited him ; 
who, instrumental in the formation of two great 
Kepublics, has survived, it is true, the brief glory of 
the one, but has lived to receive an immortal reward in 
the universal gratitude and homage of the other. 

To these pantomimes succeeded ballets, and such 
jeux de societe as ' La Peur ' and ' Decampativos ; ' the 
former a sort of dumb show in which the actors put on 
the appearance of dying and coming to life again, and 
the latter a more refined species of Blindman's Buff. 
To such an excess did these royal persons carry their 

1 Segues Memoirs. 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 165 

love of sport and mount ebankism that the Comte 
d'Artois his present Majesty Charles X. actually 
took lessons, for some time, in rope-dancing from 
Placido and the celebrated Little Devil. 1 

At length, tired both of ballets and Blindman's 
Buff, these royal play-fellows aspired to regular acting; 
and to the Queen it was a relief from the representa- 
tion of Royalty to act the soubrettes in the ' Gageure 
Imprevue ' and the ' Devin du Village.' It was not, 
however, without a struggle with some parts of her 
family that she was allowed to indulge in this favourite 
pursuit. The brother of the King would not suffer 
Madame to act ; and the King himself, in order to dis- 
courage what he considered an indecorous proceeding, 
is said to have hissed the royal debutante the first 
night. From what has transpired, indeed, of the 
merits of her Majesty's acting, there is little doubt 
that the great majority of the audience must have 
been ' de 1'avis de 1'aspic,' as well as the King. But 
royalty, ' quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia vertit,' is sure 
of applause, and the only honest opinion hazarded at 
the time is that which Madame Campan as well as 
Montjoie has recorded: 'II faut avouer que c'est 
royalement mal joueV 

Of the history of the German drama we profess to 
know little; but from the time of Reuchlin, the 
earliest writer and actor of plays in the academies of 
Germany, down to Schiller, whose sole experiment in 
the way of acting seems to have been still more un- 

1 M. le Comte d'Artois, qui par sa taille, sa jeunesse, et ses 
graces naturelles, est fait pour reussir dans tous les exercices du 
corps, a ambitionne aussi la gloire de danser sur la corde. II a pris 
longtemps en silence, et dans le plus grand secret, des lemons du Sieur 
Placide et du Petit Diable.' Jfemoires Secrets pour servir, c., 
torn, xv! p. 182. 



1 66 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

fortunate than that of Rousseau, 1 we have no doubt 
that a sufficient contribution of materials towards a 
History of Private Theatres might be found. 

In England the drama, in its rise and progress, has 
followed pretty nearly the same course as in France. 
The sacred comedy, or mystery, was its first essay, and 
showmen and priests the earliest actors. From the 
church, too, after a similar sort of divorce, the his- 
trionic art passed to universities and schools in the 
former of which it flourished to a very late period, 
while in the later some relics of it even still remain. 
6 (rammer Grurton's Needle,' the production of a 
Bishop of Bath and Wells, and the first approach to 
anything like a regular comedy in our language, was 
acted at Christ's College, Cambridge, in the year 1522. 
About forty years afterwards, both Oxford and Cam- 
bridge represented plays before Queen Elizabeth, in 
English as well as in Latin ; and a drama composed 
by a learned Doctor of Divinity of Cambridge had 
the honour, we are told, of putting his Majesty King 
James I. fast to sleep. 

Warton is of opinion that, to these early collegiate 
representations, the dramatic taste of the nation was, 
in no small degree, indebted for its improvement ; nor 
must some share of the merit be denied to another 
class of private actors, the Gentlemen of the Inns of 
Court, who, both by writing and acting, conduced 
considerably to the same object. John Roos, a student 
of Gray's Inn, and afterwards serjeant-at-law, wrote a 
comedy which was acted in the hall of the society in 

1 Schiller acted, while at the University, in a piece played 
before the Duke of Wirtemberg. * II choisit le Drame de Clavigo, de 
Goethe, et s'y reserva le principal role. Ce ne fut point pour lui 
une occasion de succes ; il se montra fort gauche etfort empech^.' 
Vie de Schiller. * 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 167 

1511 ; and the Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex, the^ first 
specimen of a heroic play in our language, was per- 
formed by the students of the Inner Temple, in the 
year 1561, before Elizabeth at Whitehall. 

We have seen that, in Italy and France, the culti- 
vation of the histrionic art among amateurs of rank 
and station had prevailed long before the establishment 
of public actors. But in England mercenary stage- 
players existed from a very early period, and most of 
the entertainments we read of at court and at the 
houses of nobility were evidently performed by persons 
of this description. From the very infancy, indeed, of 
the drama, there appears to have been a regular 
company of actors attached to the court, both in 
England and Scotland, and the only entertainments 
of a theatrical nature, in which royal and noble 
personages themselves condescended to appear, were 
those allegorical pageants and pomps with which it 
was the custom to celebrate all solemn occasions. 

These costly shows, becoming gradually more refined 
and dramatic, assumed, at a later period, a more 
elevated character under the name of masques, and, 
calling incident and beautiful poetry to their aid, have 
been enshrined imperishably in our literature, by the 
pens of Jonson and Milton. 1 

It was in the reigns of James I. and his successor 
that these splendid creations attained their highest 
perfection. ' Thus magnificently constructed,' observes 
GrifFord, ' the Masque was not committed to ordi- 
nary performers. It was composed, as Lord Bacon 
says, for princes, and by princes it was played. The 

1 The Arcades of Milton was performed by the children of the 
Countess Dowager of Derby, at her seat, Harefield Place ; and the 
Comus, says Johnson, ' was presented at Ludlow, then the residence 
of the Lord President of Wales, in 1634, and had the honour of 
being acted by the Earl of Bridgewater's sons and daughters.' 



168 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

prime nobility of both sexes, led on by James and his 
Queen, took upon themselves the respective characters ; 
and it may be justly questioned whether a nobler 
display of grace, and elegance, and beauty was ever 
beheld than appeared in the masques of Jonson. The 
songs in these entertainments were probably intrusted 
to professional men ; but the dialogue, and above all 
the dances, which were adapted to the fable, and 
acquired without much study and practice, were 
executed by the Court themselves.' 

It would be by no means an unamusing or un- 
instructive task to collect such particulars as are 
recorded of these rich and fanciful spectacles, on which 
the Veres, the Derbys, the Bedfords, the Cliffords, the 
Arundels, and other historical names, reflect such lustre. 
In Jonson's Masque of Blackness, the Queen, and the 
ladies Suffolk, Derby, Emngham, Herbert, &c., per- 
sonated the parts of Moors, and had, as we are informed 
by Sir Dudley Carleton, ' their faces and arms, up to 
the elbows, painted black.' ' But it became them,' 
adds the learned Secretary, ' nothing so well as their 
own red and white.' In the Masque of Oberon, Sir 
John Finnet tells us, 'the little Duke Charles (Charles 
I.) was still found to be in the midst of the fairy 
dancers.' The ' Hue and Cry after Cupid,' as performed 
at Lord Haddington's marriage, 1608, transcended in 
expensiveness even the ever memorable fete this year 
at Boyle Farm having cost the eleven noblemen and 
gentlemen concerned in it ' 300^. a man.' l 

The last attempt made to revive this species of 
entertainment was in the reign of Charles II., when 
the two future Queens, Mary and Anne, assisted by 
many of the young nobility of both sexes, performed a 
masque, called ' Calisto,' written by Crowne, and the 

1 Lodge's Illustrations, vol. iii. p. 343. 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 169 

unfortunate Duke of Monmouth appeared among the 
dancers. Evelyn thus speaks of this representation : 
* Saw a comedy at night at Court, acted by the ladies 
only ; amongst them, Ladv Mary and Anne, his R. H.'s 
two daughters, and my dear friend Mrs. Blagg, who, 
having the principal part, performed it to admiration.' 

From that time we hear no more of such courtly 
pageants in England ; though, within these few years, 
.a taste for performances somewhat similar seems to 
have sprung up in some of the courts on the continent, 
where spectacles founded on the stories of Ivanhoe and 
Lalla Rookh have been got up with a splendour which 
e/en the masques of our ancient kings could hardly 
parallel. In the ' Divertissement ' from Lalla Rookh, 
performed at the Court of Berlin in 1822, the present 
Emperor and Empress of Russia played the parts of 
Feramorz and Lalla Rookh ; the Duke of Cumberland 
personated Abdallah, the father of the royal minstrel ; 
and the other characters in the tableaux, selected from 
the poem, were represented by the Princes and Prin- 
cesses of Prussia, and by the most distinguished persons 
of the court and society of Berlin. 1 

"We should have mentioned that during the reign of 
Oliver and his saints, when stage-plays in public were 
so strictly prohibited, there were, besides the enter- 
tainments set on foot by Sir William Davenant at 
Rutland House, occasional representations of plays at 
the houses of the nobility ; and Holland House, among 
its other memorable associations, is particularly men- 
tioned as having been used for this purpose. These 
performances, however, though clandestine, or at least 
connived at by the ruling powers, cannot fairly be 

1 ' Lalla Roukh, Divertissement mele de Chants et de Danses, 
execute au Chateau Royal de Berlin, le 27 Janvier, 1822, c. &c. 
avec 23 planches coloriees.' 



1 70 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

classed under the head of private theatricals ; their 
object being to give relief to the unemployed players, 
who chiefly, if not exclusively, performed on these 
occasions. The same remark applies to what is called 
the 'private' theatre of Davenant Mr. Malone, we 
believe, having no authority for asserting, that in the 
pieces at Eutland House ' no stage-player performed.' 

From the time of Charles II. till near the end of 
the last century, the Theatre de ftociete of England 
affords but little, as far as we know, that is interesting. 
In the Memoirs of Lord Orford we find, under the date 
1751, the following curious notice: 'The /th was 
appointed for the Naturalisation Bill, but the House 
adjourned to attend at Drury Lane, where Othello was 
acted by a Mr. Delaval and his family, who had hired 
the theatre on purpose. The crowd of people of fashion 
was so great that the footmen's gallery was hung with 
blue ribands.' 

The performances at the Duchess of Queensberry's,. 
for the amusement of the royal personages of Leicester 
House, are only memorable, we believe, for having 
enabled the favourite, Lord Bute, to display his fine 
legs (of which he was so proud) in the gay character 
of Lothario. We might next pass in review the 
theatricals of Winterslow, where no less an actor on the 
stage of life than the late Charles Fox ccelestis hie in 
dicendo vir played Horatio in the ' Fair Penitent,' and 
Sir Harry in ' High Life Below Stairs.' At Holland 
House, too, Mr. Fox played Hastings to the 'Jane 
Shore ' of the beautiful Lady Sarah Bunbury. 

Kichmond House presents another patrician theatre 
of the bygone times, whose attractions, on one occa- 
sion, shortened the solemn sittings of the Senate, and 
brought Mr. Pitt himself (to use his own words on 
another occasion) ' under the wand of the enchanter.' 
If the anecdote be true, which attributes to that festive 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 171 

evening the glory of having collected Pitt, Fox, and 
Sheridan together in one hackney-coach of which 
hackney-coach, it might well be said, ' sideraque alta 
trahit ' it is an event that, among the memorabilia of 
private theatres, is deserving of special and emphatic 
record. 

We have thus hastily, and, we rather fear, tire- 
somely, put together the few particulars relating to 
private theatres that have fallen within the range of 
our research. It is now time, we feel, to take a little 
notice of the volume which has been the innocent cause 
of all this causerie, and which, though not intended, 
we believe, for circulation beyond the members of the 
institution to which it refers, appeared to us to warrant, 
by its connexion with the general history of the drama, 
the use that we have made of it. 

The city of Kilkenny, where the performances com- 
memorated in this volume were continued annually, 
with but few interruptions, from the year 1802 to 1819, 
possesses some ancient claims on the reverence of all 
lovers of the drama. The celebrated Bale, whose tra- 
gedy of Pammachius was acted at Christ's College, 
Cambridge, in 15 44, inhabited for some time, as Bishop 
of Ossory, the palace of Kilkenny; and two of his 
sacred comedies, or mysteries, were, as he himself tells 
us, acted at the market-cross in that town. c On the 
xx daye of August was the Ladye Marye, with us at 
Kilkennye, proclaimed Queen of England, etc. The 
yonge men in the forenone played a tragedye of " God's 
Promises in the Old Lawe," at the market-crosse, with 
organe-plaingis and songes, very aptely. In the after- 
none, again, they played a comedie of " Sanct Johan 
Baptiste's Preachings, of Christe's Baptisynge, and of 
his Temptacion in the Vildernesse." ' l 

1 TJw Vocation of John Sale. 



172 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

From that period till the middle of the last century, 
Ireland furnishes but few materials for a history of the 
stage, public or private. So slow, indeed, was the 
progress of the drama in that country, that, in the year 
1600, when England had been for some time enjoying 
the inspirations of Shakespeare's muse, we find the old 
tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex, the first rude essay of 
the art, represented before Lord Montjoy at the Castle 
of Dublin. It was, indeed, about the same period when, 
as we have said, the taste for private acting reappeared 
in England, that a similar feeling manifested itself 
among the higher ranks of society in Ireland ; and in 
the year 1759 a series of amusements of this kind took 
place at Lurgan, in the County of Armagh, the seat of 
that distinguished member of the Irish parliament, 
William Brownlow. c To this meeting,' says the editor 
of the volume before us, in his introduction, 6 the stage 
is indebted for the popular entertainment of Midas. 
It was written upon that occasion by one of the com- 
pany, the late Mr. Kane O'Hara, and originally consisted 
of but one act, commencing with the fall of Apollo 
from the clouds. The characters in the piece were 
undertaken by the members of the family and their 
relatives, with the exception of the part of Pan, which 
was reserved by the author for himself. Many additions 
were made to it before its introduction to the public, 
and, among others, the opening scene of " Jove in his 
Chair," as it is now represented.' 

To these representations succeeded, in 1760, a sort 
of theatrical jubilee at Castletown, the residence of the 
Right Hon. Thomas Conolly, where, after the perform- 
ance of the ' First Part of Henry IV.,' an epilogue was, 
it appears, spoken by Hussy Burgh afterwards Baron 
of the Exchequer one of the most accomplished men 
that the Bar of Ireland has ever produced. In the 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 173 

year 1761, the Duke of Leinster opened his princely 
mansion at Cartown to a series of entertainments of 
the same description ; and, in a list of the characters 
of the Beggar's Opera, which was one of the pieces 
performed on this occasion, we find, among a number 
of other distinguished names (Lord Charlemont, Lady 
Louisa Conolly, &c.), the rather startling announcement 
of ' Lockit by the Eev. Dean Marly.' l This worthy 
pendant to the Bibienus of the Court of Leo X. spoke 
also a prologue on the same occasion, written by him- 
self, the concluding lines of which are as follows : 

But when this busy mimic scene is o'er, 
All shall resume the worth they had before ; 
Lockit himself his knavery shall resign, 
And lose the gaoler in the dull divine. 

Among the most interesting of the other perform- 
ances recorded in this volume are those got up in the 
year 17/4, at the seats of Sir Hercules Langrishe and 
Mr. Henry Flood, where the two celebrated orators, 
Grrattan and Flood, appeared together on the stage, 
and, in personating the two contending chieftains, 
Macbeth and Macduff, had a sort of poetical foretaste 
of their own future rivalry, ' belli propinqui rudimenta.' 
We find the name of Mr. G-rattan again connected with 
private theatricals in the year 1776, when, after a 
representation of the Masque of Comus at the country 
seat of the Eight Hon. David La Touche. an epilogue 
from the pen of Mr. Grattan was spoken the only 
copy of verses, we believe, that this illustrious son of 
Ireland is known to have written. The verses of great 
statesmen are always sure to be objects of curiosity, 
even when, like those of Cicero, they have no other 
recommendation than their badness. Some specimens 

1 Afterwards Bishop of Waterford. 



174 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

of the poetry of Mr. Burke have lately been given to 
the world, and those who complain of his being too 
poetical in his prose will perhaps be consoled by find- 
ing him so prosaic in his poetry. Pope says, with 
perhaps rather an undue pride in his heart, that ' the 
corruption of a poet is the generation of a statesman ; ' 
if so, Burke must have been far gone in decomposition 
when he wrote such verses. The epilogue of Mr. 
Grrattan, however, contains some lively and fluent lines, 
and our readers, we presume, will not be displeased to 
see a few of them here : 

Hist ! hist ! I hear a dame of fashion say, 

Lord, how absurd the heroine of this play ! 

A god of rank and station was so good 

To take a lady from a hideous wood, 

Brought her to all the pleasures of his court, 

Of love, and men, and music the resort ; 

Bid mirth and transport wait on her command ; 

Gave her a ball, and offer'd her his hand ; 

And she, quite country, obstinate and mulish, 

Extremely fine, perhaps, but vastly foolish, 

Would neither speak, nor laugh, nor dance, nor sing, 

Nor condescend, nor wed, nor anything. 

****** 

But, gentle ladies ! you'll, I'm sure, approve 
Your sex's triumph over guilty love ; 
Nor will our sports of gaiety alarm you ; 
These little bacchanals will never harm you ; * 
Nor Comus' wreathed smiles ; and you'll admire, 
Once more, true English force and genuine fire ; 
Milton's chaste majesty Arne's airy song, 
The light note tripping on Allegro's tongue ; 
While the sweet flowing of the purest breast, 
Like Milton tuneful, vestal as his taste, 

1 The Masque was acted by children. 



PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 175 

Calls Music from her cell, and warbles high 
The rapturous soul of song and sovereign ecstasy. 

We shall not further pursue the enumerations which 
this volume supplies of the various amateur perform- 
ances that preceded those of Kilkenny except to 
remark that, in the list of the actors at Shane's Castle 
in 1785, there occurs one name, which, in the hearts 
of all true Irishmen, awakens feelings which they can 
hardly trust their lips to utter Lord Edward Fitz- 
gerald. 

With the theatricals of Kilkenny expired the last 
faint remains of what may be called the Social Era in 
Ireland. ' Adieu, Societe ! ' was the lively dying- 
speech of one of the fellow-conspirators of Berton, 
when about to submit his neck to the guillotine ; and 
4 Adieu, Societe ! ' might, with the same ' tragical mirth,' 
have been ejaculated by Ireland at the period of the 
Union. To such times as we have been describing 
to such classic and humanising amusements has suc- 
ceeded an age of bitter cant and bewildering controversy. 
Instead of opening their mansions, as of old, to such 
innocent and ennobling hospitalities, the Saint-Peers 
of the present day convert their halls into conventicles 
and conversion shops. Where the theatre once re- 
echoed the young voices of a Grrattan and a Flood, the 
arena is now prepared for the disputations of the 
Reverend Popes and Maguires. The scenes of Otway 
and Shakespeare have given way to the often- announced 
tragedies of Pastorini, and even farce has taken its last 
refuge in Sir Harcourt Lees. 

We have only to add that this curious volume, 
which will, one day or other, be a gem in the eyes of 
the bibliomaniac, contains portraits of all the most 
distinguished members of the Theatrical Society of 



1 76 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 

Kilkenny, Mr. Grrattan, Mr. Thomas Moore, 3 Mr. 
James Corry, &c., &c. There is also prefixed to the 
work a portrait of the founder of the society, the late 
Mr. Eichard Power, followed by a tribute to the high 
qualities of that excellent man, from ' one of the best 
and warmest hearts ' (says the editor of the work) y 
6 united with, perhaps, the finest talents that Ireland 
ever produced.' 2 From this just and eloquent eulogy 
we give the following short extract : 

It was truly said of him, that * he never made an enemy 
or lost a friend ' and in a country distracted by civil and 
religious discord a man could not be found, of any sect or 
party, who felt unkindly towards him. Yet this popularity 
was not earned by the compliances of a timid or assenting 
character; he had a benevolent disposition, which made it 
pleasure to him to make others happy, and he shrunk from 
giving pain almost with the same instinct that men shrink 
from suffering it. This made him prompt to approve, and 
slow to censure; indulgent to error, and encouraging to 
merit ; yet there was something about him that repelled and 
rebuked whatever was sordid or mean j and, when firmness 
was required, his integrity was uncompromising, and hi 
courage not to be shaken. 

1 This, as well as the allusion to Lalla Rookh on a previous 
page, is merely a mystification of Moore's to conceal the 
authorship of the article ; in which object, however, he was not 
successful. In his Diary of November 1827 (vol. v. p. .239) he 
records the receipt of a letter from Corry, inclosing one he had 
just got from the Chief Justice Bushe, on the subject of my article 
in the Edinburgh, "Private TJieatricals.' 1 '' ' The following is an ex- 
tract : ' So much curious information, conveyed in a manner so 
fascinating, leaves little doubt as to that hand which nullum qttod 
tetigit non ornavit, at least only as much as Erasmus felt when, after 
reading a work of his times, he exclaimed, " Atit Morus, aut 
diabolus." ' ED. 

2 The person alluded to as the writer of the Eulogy is, we have 
reason to believe, the able and eloquent Chief Justice Bushe. Note 
by Moore. 



177 



GERMAN RATIONALISMS 

[SEPTEMBER 1831.] 

IT is, we think, high time for the welJ-paid champions 
of orthodoxy in this country to awake from the digni- 
fied slumbers in which it is their delight to indulge, 
and to take some notice of those incursions into their 
sacred territory which the theologians of Germany 
have been so long permitted, without any repulse, to 
make. We are assured by Shakespeare, that 

Dainty bits 
Make rich the ribs, but bankerout the wits ; 

nor could we ask a much more pregnant proof of this ' 
fact than the striking contrast which exists between 
the poor, active, studious, and inquisitive theologians 
of Germany, and the sleek, somnolent, and satisfied 

1 i. The State of Protestantism in Germany, being the Substance 
of Four Discourses preached before the University of Cambridge. By 
the Rev. Hugh James Rose, B.D. Second edition, enlarged. 8ve, 
London, 1829. 

2. An Historical Enquiry into the probable Causes of the Rationa- 
list Character, lately predominant in the Theology of Germany. By 
E. B. Pusey, M.A., Regius Professor of Hebrew in the University 
of Oxford. 8vo. 1828. 

3. An Historical Enquiry, fyc. Part the Second; containing an 
Explanation of the Views misconceived by Mr. Rose, and further 
Illustrations. By E. B. Pusey. 1830. 

4. Six Sermons on the Study of the Holy Scriptures, preached 
before the University of Cambridge in tlie years 1827 and 1828; to 
which are annexed Two Dissertations ; the first on the Reasonableness 
of the Ortlwdox Views of Christianity, as opposed to the Rationalism 
of Germany ; the second on Prophecy, with an original Exposition of 
the Booh of Revelation, showing that the whole of tliat remarkable 
Prophecy has long ago been fulfilled. By the Rev. S. Lee, B.D., 
D.D., Professor of Arabic in the University of Cambridge. 8vo, 
1 8:0. 



1 78 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

divines of the Church of England. The priests of 
Egypt, we are told, abstained from drinking the water 
of the Nile because they found it too fattening ; the 
Pactolus of the Church also fattens, but it is not 
abstained from ; and the consequence is, that our 
portly sentinels slumber on their posts, while the lean 
theologues of Halle and Grottingen carry away all the 
glory of the field. 

Among the lower ranks, indeed, of the English 
clergy, that sharpener of the wits, poverty, is not 
wanting. But so strict is the watch kept over their 
orthodoxy by their superiors, and so promptly does the 
episcopal eye, awake only to innovation, mark out for 
reproof and punishment every movement of free inquiry 
, by which the general compromise of belief throughout 
the Church may be disturbed, that the few among those 
lower expectants of patronage, who have either learning 
or leisure for theological disquisitions, think it most 
prudent not to enter into them ; and accordingly, on 
all the great questions agitated by the Grerman Ration- 
alists, a 'sacred silence,' like that which Basil and 
others of the Fathers tell us was maintained, respecting 
her dogmas, by the Primitive Church, reigns with 
almost equal profoundness throughout that hallowed 
domain which reposes within the fence of the Thirty- 
nine Articles. 

It is the opinion, indeed, of the Rev. Mr. Rose, 
whose work on Rationalism is now before us, that to 
the want of a regular Episcopacy, like that of the 
English Church, as well as to the absence of those 
curbs upon the restiveness of private judgment, which 
a compulsory subscription of certain Articles of Faith 
imposes, the very erratic course into which Germari 
theology has extravagated is, in a great measure, to be 
attributed. In this respect he says, ' there is a marked 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 179 

difference between our Church and these Protestant 
Churches/ We are inclined to doubt, however, whether 
that implicit acquiescence in a common symbol of 
faith which diffuses so halcyon a calm over the surface 
of our Church Establishment has not been brought 
about by appeals to far more worldly feelings than Mr. 
Kose would willingly admit to exist in his reverend 
brotherhood ; and we find ourselves strengthened not a 
little in this view of the matter by having observed 
that, in proportion as the Church has become more rich 
and powerful, less of the ' old leaven of innovations ' 
has mixed perceptibly with the mass ; so that, by a 
result which sounds more miraculous than it really is, 
our establishment has gone on improving in Unity 
in proportion as it has more and more abounded in 
Pluralities. 

With respect to the efficacy of Confessions of Faith 
in producing uniformity of belief, it may safely be 
asserted, that no formula of this nature has ever been 
constructed, out of which easy and pliant consciences 
could not find some plausible loophole of escape. 
Among the Germans themselves subscription has, we 
believe, been always required to what they call the 
Symbolic Books in the Lutheran Church, and to the 
Heidelberg Catechism in the Eeformed Churches. In 
the former of these two professions of faith an opening 
was indeed left, of which the free- thin king divines of 
Germany have most abundantly availed themselves, 
and to which Mr. Eose imputes the blame of having 
been one of the main inlets through which the flood of 
heresy, that has, if we may so say, un christianised their 
Church, found admission. Their Symbolic Books, he 
says, were subscribed ' only in as far as they agree 
with Scripture a qualification which obviously bestows 
on the ministry the most perfect liberty of believing 

N 2 



i8o / GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

and teaching whatever their own fancy may suggest.' 
In attributing, however, to this elastic c quatenus ' in 
the creed of the Lutherans so much of that perilous 
matter which has been introduced into their Church, 
the reverend gentleman must, we think, have forgotten 
the Sixth Article of those he himself has subscribed ; 
sanctioning virtually, as it appears to us, the same 
latitude of interpretation and dissent. c Holy Scripture,' 
says this article, ' contains all things necessary to salva- 
tion ; so that whatever is not read therein, nor may be 
proved thereby, is not to be required of any man to be 
believed as an article of faith, or to be thought requisite 
or necessary to salvation.' 

It was, indeed, under the shelter of tMs commodious 
clause that the Jortins, Claytons, Blackburnes, &c., of 
other times, when the Church of England was perhaps 
less afraid of the consequences of dissent, and certainly 
less furnished with the means of purchasing conformity, 
were left unmolested in their bishoprics, prebends, and 
rectories, to indulge in their own heterodox notions, 
and enjoy at once the comforts of preferment and 
luxuries of dissent. 1 Times are, however, in this 
respect much altered. We should like to see the 
actually existing Eector of St. Duns tan in the East, 
who would so far risk his chance of a stall as to venture 
upon Jortin's rash avowal, that ' there are Propositions 
contained in our Liturgy and Articles which no man 

1 It is thought that Jortin had somewhat more than a leaning 
towards Arianism. (See a Letter addressed to Gilbert Wakefield, 
inserted in his Memoirs, i. 376.) That he was, at all events, not 
orthodox on this subject, may be seen from a passage in his Tracts, 
where he goes so far as to declare, that they who uphold the ortho- 
dox doctrine respecting the Trinity must be prepared to assert 
that Jesus Christ is his own Father and his own Son.' The con- 
sequence will be so,' he adds, 'whether they like it, or whether they 
like it not.' 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 181 

of common sense among us believes.' Even that 
enigmatic production (the work, it is said, of one 
Vigilius, a contentious bishop of Tapsus), which passed 
under the name of the Athanasian Creed, is to be in- 
cluded, if we may believe a late learned archbishop, in 
the same inviolable circle of reverential silence, by 
which all established and subscribed symbols are to be 
surrounded. The same tranquillising effects which the 
power of patronage has so long produced in our political 
system, the hope of preferment has even more success- 
fully accomplished in the ecclesiastical branch of our 
constitution ; and, as a hot and headlong loyalty has 
long been the , sole title to any favours from the state, 
so a blind and uninquiring orthodoxy is the one 
' narrow way ' that leadeth to all good things in the 
Church. Woe unto the young divine who, like the 
accomplished author of the ' History of the Jews,' dares 
to reason, however unpretendingly and sensibly, upon 
matters of religious concernment ! on him will the 
Theological Eeviews, monthly and quarterly, pour the 
vials of their wrath, and on him the golden gates of 
preferment will, as sure as he lives, be shut. 

Very different from all this, and, it must be owned, 
bordering on the opposite extreme, is the state of such 
matters in Germany. The immediate effect of the Ee- 
formation upon the clergy of that country was to render 
them at once poor l and polemical to despoil them of 

1 Neither has time nor long possession improved their condition 
in this respect. The richest member of the Church of Hanover,' 
says a modern traveller, ' the Abbot of Loccum, who was formerly a 
Prince of the Empire, is said not to enjoy, including all his little 
privileges (such as the inhabitants of Loccum being obliged to 
maintain his horses and wash his linen), more than 6,000 thalers, 
or i,oooZ. per year.' The same intelligent traveller gives the 
following account of the celebrated University of Gottingen : The 
whole expense of this university (and, compared with other German 



1 82 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

their princely abbeys and bishoprics, and give them the 
choice of about fifty new creeds instead. The history 
of the Reformers themselves of the course of intolerance 
into which these assertors of the right of private judg- 
ment at once plunged the various standards of infalli- 
bility set up by them, substituting (as has been often 
remarked) l a plurality of Popes for the one whom they 
had renounced all this is but too freshly present to the 
memories of those who study the strange history of 
Human Faith. Nor can we conceive a much more 
curious chapter of that history, as illustrating the ten- 
dency there is in the human mind to oscillate from one 
extreme to another, than would be furnished by a full 
inquiry into the process by which the Church of Ger- 
many has been brought to its present state ; by which 
a people who once carried their notions of inspiration 
so far as not only to maintain that every syllable of the 
Hebrew Bible, even to its vowel points, was inspired , 
but also to insist upon having it believed that their 
own Symbolic Books were every one of them dictated 
by the Holy Spirit, has been at length brought to en- 
tertain a system of theology, which discards inspiration 
from the Scriptures altogether makes Reason the sole 
test and arbiter of Faith, and, by divesting Christianity of 

universities, it is magnificently endowed), for books, salaries of pro- 
fessors, buildings, and all other expenses, is somewhat more than 
n,oooZ. per year a sum about equal, probably, to the incomes of 
four heads of houses at one of our universities.' Accordingly, as he 
adds, * Gottingen has no good things to bribe its younger members 
to a continued adherence to taught opinions. There is no warm 
and well-lined stall of orthodoxy. They believe according as they 
discover truth, and not according to the prebends and fellowships 
which reward a particular faith.' 

1 Luther himself, indeed, seems to have been the first utterer of 
this sarcasm. On stepping into the carriage with Pomeranus, who 
was about to introduce him to the Pope's nuncio, he said laugh- 
ingly, * Here sit the Pope of Germany and Cardinal Pomeranus.' 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 1*83 

all claims to the supernatural and miraculous, robs her 
of the strong ground on which she has hitherto rested 
her lever. 

The task of tracing the causes which led to this 
singular revolution has, on a limited scale, been under- 
taken by Mr. Pusey, in two of the volumes before us ; 
and until he, or some other writer equally strong in 
Grerman lore, but somewhat more gifted, it might be 
wished, with ease and lucidness of style, shall do full 
justice to the subject, we content ourselves thankfully 
with the sketch which he has so ably and with so truly 
a Christian spirit given us. 

The fierce divisions of the Grerman Reformers 
among themselves, and the polemical spirit which was 
thereby engendered, converting the zeal which ought to 
have actuated them, in defence of their common cause, 
into bitter and unmitigated virulence against each 
other, were, it cannot be doubted (though Mr. Pusey 
passes lightly over this true fountain-head of the 
mischief), the original source of those abuses and 
corruptions of theology, which the warfare of neigh- 
bouring creeds is always sure to generate ; and which, 
in this instance, by making Christianity subservient to 
the passions and purposes of party, had the effect of 
gradually lowering her divine character, and placing 
her on ground where she was within easy reach of her 
enemies. Among the causes to which this result is to 
be attributed, one of the most fatal, confessedly, was 
the erroneous view which the early Reformers took of 
the doctrine of inspiration, 1 and the forced modes of 

1 That the warning, however, has been thrown away, is proved 
by such declarations as the following : ' After all, the Bible is the 
inspired word of God, and we do well to lean to the advocates of 
plenary inspiration ; for there is no end to latitude and incertitude, 
there is no knowing where to stop if you once admit that a single 
particle is uninspired.' Grant's English Cltwch. 



1 84 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

interpreting the Scriptures to which it drove them. 
Having laid it down that every word and syllable of 
the text was dictated by the Holy Spirit, it became 
incumbent upon them, of course, to endeavour to re- 
concile with this unwise hypothesis all those inaccu- 
racies in minor points of detail which might be 
remarked in the Sacred Volume ; and which, under a 
more qualified theory of inspiration, might have been 
safely left without any such effort at defence. In thus 
claiming, however, for the least important parts of the 
text the same authority as for the most essential and 
vital, they rashly grounded both on the same evidence, 
and exposed their character for authenticity to one com- 
mon risk. 

During the desolating period of the Thirty Years' 
War, the ' Protestant party-spirit ' (as Mr. Pusey styles 
it), which had from the very first been sufficiently 
strong, increased in virulence, and, while it prolonged 
the duration of that struggle, aggravated all its miseries. 
The only branches of theology then cultivated were those 
that ministered to the factious spirit of the day, till, at 
last, the page of Scripture was referred to but as a sort 
of armoury, from whence the weapons of the respective 
combatants were to be furnished. Hence arose a vain 
and verbal school of divinity or, as one of their own 
better divines characterised it, 'an armed theology, 
pointed with mere thorns of logic ' to the utter neglect 
both of Christian practice, and of the enlightened know- 
ledge which should be the handmaid of Christian truth. 
Ignorant of history, of sound Biblical criticism, of all 
those branches, in short, of learning from which a 
prepared champion of the Faith draws his resources of 
defence, the divines of Germany were, on the first 
approaches of scepticism, taken by surprise; those 
Scriptural proofs, founded chiefly upon scholastic 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 185 

subtleties, which they had found so potent against each 
other, fell powerless before the common foe, and they 
were at last compelled to submit to a compromise with 
the infidel even more ruinous than defeat. 

As a counteraction to this cold, fleshly, and formal 
theology, a sect had arisen to which the appellation 
of Pietists was given, whose original object it was to 
re-awaken, throughout the Christian world, some of 
those moral and devotional feelings which the sub- 
tleties of the schools had nearly extinguished, and to 
call back Religion from the regions of the head to her 
own humble and natural home in the heart. But the 
system of these religionists, however amiable their 
professed doctrines, contained within itself, from the 
first, the seeds of abuse. Their devotional fervour soon 
abated into hypocrisy; their pretensions to internal 
illumination and divine impulses afforded a pretext 
to the fanatic for every license of heresy ; and in the 
disgrace thus brought upon the professors of Pietism 
the interests of genuine piety itself suffered. Among 
the practices which this sect held to be illicit were 
laughing, card-playing, and dancing ; and the remarks 
made by Mr. Pusey upon this part of their creed may 
be read, perhaps, with advantage by some of our 
modern pietists : 

The degree of value, however, attached to the abstinence 
from amusements, whose character is derived solely from 
their influence upon each individual (the so-called acta^opa), 
became a source both of self-deception and of breaches of 
Christian charity ; a deflection invariably occurring as soon 
as the abstinence is regarded as being in itself a Christian 
duty. A legal yoke is then substituted for Christian free- 
dom arid things, in the first instance acknowledged by the 
party itself to be of subordinate importance, become the tests 
of Christian progress. It thus became common to exclude 



1 86 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

from the communion persons known to have danced or to- 
have played at cards. 1 The great object, lastly, of the early 
school, the promotion of practical living Christianity around 
them, became a mere external duty, and being consequently 
pursued mechanically, alienated, too often, instead of winning 
to the Gospel. 

It will be perceived from what we have here stated, 
that it was by no means from any want of religious zeal 
but from the wrong channels through which that zeal 
was directed, and the infinite varieties and whims of 
opinion into which the right of private judgment wan- 
toned, that the public mind in Germany came, at last, to 
lose all standard of orthodoxy, and to be at the mercy of 
every ' wind of doctrine ' by which poor human reason 
was ever yet ' carried about.' So entirely, indeed, had 
they exchanged the substance of Christianity for the 
shadow, that the Bible itself, the professed oracle of all,, 
was in reality but rarely consulted by any. The 
orthodox teachers had substituted their own scholastic 
theology for that of the Scriptures ; and ' many very 
diligent students of theology,' says Spener, ' who readily 
followed the guidance of their preceptors, and so were 
well versed in other portions of theology, and held 
diligently lectures on Thetica, Antithetica, Polemica, 
and the like, had never in their life gone through a 
single book of the Bible.' Of the utter neglect, indeed, 
into which the study of the Bible had fallen, among 
this earliest Protestant people, towards the beginning 
of the eighteenth century, some idea may be formed 
from the fact that, at the great fair of Leipsic, at that 

1 It is an amusing instance of the excesses that arise on both 
sides, from the mutual reaction of two religious sects, that, on one 
occasion, when an edict excluding card-players from their commu- 
nion was issued by the pietists, a formula of prayer for success at 
cards was immediately published by one of the orthodox preachers.- 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 187 

period, in not one of the booksellers' shops was either 
Bible or Testament to be found. 

It is not wonderful that, in a country where religion 
was left thus wild and unfenced, intersected by so many 
various cross-ways of doctrine, and without any fixed 
frontier of faith, the inroads of sceptics should, on their 
first appearance, be successful, and at once ' win their 
easy way.' To the introduction and study of the works 
of the English freethinkers, Toland, Tindal, Collins, 
&c., Mr. Pusey attributes the first strong impression 
that was made upon the already fragile outworks of 
Grerman faith ; and he might have added that the title 
alone of Toland's famous book, ' Christianity not Mys- 
terious ; a treatise showing that there is nothing in the 
Gospel contrary to reason, or above it, and that no 
Christian doctrine can be properly called a mystery,' 
contains within it the germ of all that system of Ra- 
tionalism which the Germans afterwards adopted. The 
flattering reception, indeed, which this bold innovator 
met with at the Courts of Hanover and Berlin, after 
having been chased out of society for his opinions in 
his own country, affords a stronger proof, perhaps, than 
any that Mr. Pusey has produced, of the state of ripe- 
ness for the reception of anti-Christian doctrines to 
which all classes of German society had at that period 
been quickened. This avowed author of a book which 
had, in England, undergone the singular criticism of 
being presented as a public nuisance by the Grand 
Jury of Middlesex, found himself in Hanover so ho- 
noured by the Electress Dowager and her family as even 
to be presented by these illustrious persons with gold 
medals and pictures of themselves on his departure ; 
and at Berlin, where the Queen noticed him with pe- 
culiar favour, he was allowed to hold a conference in 
her Majesty's presence with the learned Beausobre, the 



1 88 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

acknowledged object of which, on Toland's part, was to 
call in question the authenticity of the books of the 
New Testament. 

To the still more direct encouragement, backed also 
by his own personal example, which the great Frederick 
held out to all apostles of infidelity, a more than due 
share of weight has been allotted among the causes that 
have occurred to bring the Protestantism of the land of 
Luther so low ; the truth being that such royal in- 
stances of irreverence and scepticism as were exhibited 
by Frederick and his philosophical grandmother, 1 are to 
be classed rather among the results than the causes of 
this singular revolution, which had been in full pro- 
gress long before either of them existed, and the real 
seeds of which are to be sought as far back as the 
Eeformation itself. In the extreme opinions and doc- 
trines to which that great outbreak of the human mind 
gave vent, and the strong reaction which, after a long 
course of intolerance, they provoked, lies the whole 
solution of the phenomena which the Church of Ger- 
many has exhibited, the explanation of every phasis 
through which the ' inconstant moon ' of her faith has 
passed. To this reaction alone was it owing that the 
busy spirit of strife and dogmatism among her sects 
was succeeded by the dangerous calm of indifference 
and scepticism, that the neglect and contempt of human 
learning which had prevailed under the influence of 
Spener and his followers, was displaced by the over- 
fastidious Biblical criticism and daring inquisitiveness 

1 This princess declined the offer of religious counsel in her last 
hours, saying < Laissez-moi mourir sans disputer.' It is also told 
of her that, on seeing one of her dames d'Jionneur weeping by her 
"bedside, she said, ' Ne me plaignez pas, car je vais a present satis- 
faire ma curiosite sur les principes des choses que Leibnitz n'a 
jamais pu m'expliquer.' 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 189 

of the learned school of Michaelis ; while (most fatal 
change of all) from the heights of that lofty theory of 
inspiration which had led her divines to see the dic- 
tates of the Spirit in every syllable of the Old and New 
Testament, they descended at last to the opposite and 
deadly extreme of rejecting inspiration from the Scrip- 
tures altogether. This last mortal blow to the authority 
of the sacred volume was the result, it is evident, of a 
sort of compromise between religion and philosophy, in 
which the former, pressed by the reasonings of her 
adversary, and already half in his interests, consented 
to give up whatever there was of supernatural in the 
grounds on which she stood, for the sake of securing to 
herself his aid in the conservation of what remained ; 
while, on the other hand, the philosopher, thus im- 
prudently propitiated by the sacrifice of all that had 
shocked him in the popular faith, saw no longer any 
objection to assuming the name of Christian ; but, on 
the contrary, rejoiced in. having thus ready formed to 
his hand a grand scheme of moral instruction, by 
which, purified as it now appeared to him of alt super- 
fluous alloy, the true happiness of mankind, both here 
and hereafter, might be advantaged. 

Such, as far as we have been able briefly to trace it, 
combining our own views with those of the writers 
before us, is the history of the rise, progress, and ulti- 
mate results of the system called Eationalism in Grer- 
many. It is right to add that, in the opinion of Mr. 
Pusey and others conversant with the subject, this 
school of theology has within these few years experienced 
a check, and is at present on the decline. How far 
this opinion may be correct we know not ; but, in a 
work published very lately at Altona, entitled ' Fort- 
setzung der Keformation,' we perceive that the author, 
who is one of the superintendents of the Lutheran 



190 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

Church in Hanover, still claims for the Rationalists, if 
not superiority of numbers, a decided preponderance in 
intellectual force and literary acquirement. 

Of the general objects and character of the school, 
some idea may be formed from the sketch we have 
given ; but the different degrees and varieties of their 
heterodoxy can only be learned by a perusal of their 
works. The fundamental principles of Eationalism we 
take to be these : That human reason, or the reasoning 
faculty, is the sole arbiter as to what is to be received 
as truth, and what is to be rejected as error, by the 
human mind ; that facts recognised by sense or con- 
sciousness form the materials on which the reasoning 
faculty is to be exercised ; that human belief is then, 
and then only, reasonable, when the degree of assent 
given to any proposition is in exact proportion to the 
degree of evidence presented to the mind of the 
inquirer. 

The Rationalist goes on to affirm that one of the 
most important among the facts to which experience 
bears its testimony is this, that the phenomena of 
Nature are so linked to each other that the whole, as 
presented before the human spectator, constitutes a 
series invariably uniform. Every phenomenon is found, 
if it can be examined, to be connected with something 
antecedent ; every change indicates a previous change, 
and the precedent and the consequent are always seen 
to bear the same uniform and reciprocal relation. 
Hence the Rationalist concludes that the government 
of this world is conducted in every instance, not by an 
immediate but by an intermediate agency ; or at least 
l>y an agency of which the manifestations always ap- 
pear to be intermediate, and to be regulated by the 
same unvarying laws. 

In subscribing to this conclusion, the Rationalist 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 191 

considers that he is not acting an optional part, but 
merely listening with attention to what he deems the 
primary and indisputable revelation of Nature and of 
(rod ; to doubt which, he contends, would be an out- 
rage against his own being, and an act of infidelity 
towards its author. When the history of a long ex- 
tended series of miracles is placed before the Rationalist, 
he replies that narratives of a similar kind are to be 
found among every people whose understandings are 
uninformed and uncultivated ; nay, that the existence 
and the belief of such narratives are the inseparable 
result of that state of mind in which the knowledge of 
the operations of nature is as yet limited and super- 
ficial ; while, on the contrary, to one who is largely 
conversant with the facts and laws of the natural world, 
no fact adequately attested has ever yet been brought 
in which these laws have been departed from ; and 
further, that even if what might appear to be an in- 
stance of this kind could be adduced, of which the 
evidence might seem to be irrefragable, still, all ana- 
logy, and the history of past errors on this subject, 
would enforce the conclusion that this apparent de- 
viation was only apparent, and that the solution must 
be sought in our yet inadequate acquaintance with all 
the parts of the process, and our inability to detect the 
intermediate links of the chain by which such pheno- 
menon is united to the regular laws of the universe. 

If, then, continues the Rationalist, I am required 
to receive as true a history of a series of miraculous 
interventions suspending the accustomed laws of Nature, 
and this on the attestation of men of uncultivated 
minds, I am required also, at the same time, to admit 
that there has been a strange subversion of the order of 
Nature ; that an incomprehensible change has taken 
place in the human mind, and a still more incompre- 



192 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

hensible change in the divine government. I must 
believe that, whilst man was in knowledge and reason 
a child, he had attained to an accuracy of attention, a 
comprehensiveness of research, an extent of knowledge, 
which is now found to belong to the human mind only 
after it has been developed by a long series of edu- 
cation, and has appropriated to itself ail that the ob- 
servation of ages has accumulated. I must believe 
that man was competent to judge of variations before 
experience had taught him to expect uniformity ; to 
become an acute observer and a trustworthy witness of 
exceptions before he had learned the rule. On the 
other hand, I must believe that God has changed his 
mode of governing the world ; that his administration 
was not then, as now, intermediate, but immediate 
that it was a succession of divine interventions ; that 
it was a suspension of the natural, and a substitution 
of the supernatural. In a word, I must believe that 
while the human mind was in a state of childhood it 
had attained to more than the maturity of manhood, 
and that the government of Grod was then parallel to 
what are now the dreams of intellectual childhood. 

It is easy to perceive that principles such as these, 
consistently pursued, would conduct to the total re- 
jection of whatever is supernatural in the Judaical and 
Christian revelations ; nor does the Eationalist evade 
this rejection ; on the contrary, he attempts to defend 
it ; and a very large proportion of the works already 
published by the advocates of the system consist of 
observations, philological, philosophical, historical, and 
critical, on the books of the Old and New Testament, 
evidently intended to diminish the reader's confidence 
in the inspiration of the sacred writers, in the mira- 
culous events they relate, in their divine authority and 
infallible truth. 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 193 

Of the dangerous consequences of such an irruption 
into the pages of Holy Writ by a body of men learned 
and acute, sincerely honest, as of many of them it must 
be accorded, in this their bold chase after truth, but 
still unprepossessed with any of that feeling, as to the 
sacrednesT of their subject, which might insure from 
them at least delicacy, if not reverence, in handling it, 
there requires but little reflection to bring before us 
the whole startling extent. In pursuance of their plan 
of rejecting all that is supernatural in the Christian 
history, they apply themselves, of course with peculiar 
diligence, to explaining away the miracles of the New 
Testament ; and how familiarly and even coarsely some 
of them grapple with this task may be seen from a 
specimen of the manner in which Paulus, one of their 
most celebrated theologians, has executed it. On the 
miracle of the tribute-money and fish he says : 6 What 
sort of a miracle is it which is commonly found here ? 
I will not say a miracle of about twelve or twenty 
groschen (2s. 6d.), for the greatness of the value does 
not make the greatness of the miracle. But it may be 
observed that as, first, Jesus received, in general, sup- 
port from many persons (Judas kept the stock, John 
xii. 6) in the same way as the Rabbis frequently lived 
from such donations ; as, secondly, so many pious 
women provided for the wants of Jesus ; as, finally, the 
claim did not occur at any remote place, but at Caper- 
naum, where Christ had friends, a miracle for about a 
dollar would certainly have been superfluous.' The 
miracle of Christ walking upon the water, the same 
theologian gets rid of by resolving it into a mistransla- 
tion of the words sjrl rrjy flaXacroT/p, which he asserts 
ought to be rendered not ' on the sea,' but c by or near 
the sea.' 

Among the modes of interpretation adopted by the 



194 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

Rationalists for the purpose of shaping to their own 
hypothesis the events and doctrines recorded in the 
Gospel, one of the most favourite, as being one of the 
most convenient, is the theory of accommodation, a 
theory which, in supposing Christ and his apostles to 
have adapted themselves, in much of what they said 
and did, to the religious and national prejudices of the 
persons whom they addressed, throws a commodious 
sort of ambiguity round their actions and sayings, under 
the cover of which any difficulty that stands in the way 
of any commentator may with ease be explained away. 
Against this hypothesis, as made use of by Semler and 
others, Mr. Eose enters his protest with considerable 
indignation ; but we may be allowed to say, in passing, 
'that by none of the German theologians not even by 
Professor Van Hemert, who seems to have escaped Mr. 
Rose's multifarious research has this theory of accom- 
modation been ever carried to a much more astounding 
length than by the right reverend author of the ' Divine 
Legation,' in his view of the numerous compliances 
with popular prejudice and superstition to which the 
Almighty, as he thinks, condescended, when (to use the 
bishop's own extraordinary words) ' it pleased the God 
of Heaven to take upon himself the office of chief 
magistrate of the Jewish Republic.' 

But, whatever irreverence some of these rationalising 
critics may have been guilty of, and however that most 
headlong of coursers, Hypothesis, may have carried 
them (as it does all who mount it) away, there seems 
to be but one opinion as to the unwearied industry, 
deep learning, and, we will add, conscientious purpose, 
of the greater number of these recluse and laborious 
scholars ; nor does it appear to us to be denied, in any 
quarter, that among the questions which they have 
raised relative to the divine character of Scripture 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 195 

some frivolous, some startling, some merely ingenious 
there have been also some which not only claim the 
earnest consideration of our own learned divines, but 
are well worthy the attention of all reflecting Christians. 

Among this latter class of their lucubrations must 
be ranked the question respecting the origin of the 
three first Gospels a question in which no less impor- 
tant a point is involved than whether these three 
Evangelical narratives are really the composition of the 
writers whose names they bear ; or whether they are 
not merely transcriptions or translations of some docu- 
ments relative to the life of Christ which had previously 
existed. The remarkable instances that occur in them 
of close verbal agreement, not only in places relating to 
the discourses and parables of Christ, but in passages 
containing no more than a mere narrative of facts, afford 
such strong proofs of the existence of an original docu- 
ment a TrpcoTsvayyeXiov, either in Greek or Aramaic 
from which two, at least, out of the three Evangelists 
must have copied their details, that it is now, we be- 
lieve, not even attempted to be denied that there must 
have existed some such source ; and the main point of 
discussion at present, is, whether it was from a Gospel 
composed by one of these Evangelists that the two 
others copied theirs ; or whether, as the German critics 
suppose, all the three were alike indebted for their 
materials to some common documents, which they 
found already in circulation, and from which they com- 
piled their narratives. 

This discovery, for so it may be called, of the 
biblical critics of Germany, was first made known in 
this country some years since by a translation, from the 
pen of the Bishop of Peterborough, of the elaborate 
work of Michaelis, in which the question was put forth. 
That a discussion affecting, in its results, even the 

o 2 



196 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

claims of the Gospels in question to inspiration, and 
supported, on the heterodox side, by such an array of 
erudition and criticism, should not have drawn forth 
from our beneficed theologians some counteracting 
effort, can only be accounted for by that spell of ' rich 
repose ' which, as we have said, hangs over all ; and 
renders them, as long as they can prevail upon Hetero- 
doxy to keep the peace within their circle, indifferent 
as to what gambols she may indulge in out of it. It 
was, indeed, not without good reason that Boileau 
placed the dwelling of the goddess of Sloth in the rich 
Abbaye of Citeaux where the light of JReforme had 
never penetrated. The question of the three Gospels 
was again returned upon the hands of the hard-working 
and hard-named scholars of Germany the Schleier- 
machers, Bretschneiders, &c. and with the exception, 
if we recollect right, of Archdeacon Townson's Dis- 
courses on the Gospels, and a stray, contemptuous 
notice or two from the young candidates for livings 
that conduct some of the Theological Eeviews, not a 
single response on the subject has breathed from any of 
those oracles to which we lay-readers of divinity are 
taught to look for instruction. 

Nor has this arisen from any want of a taste for 
authorship among the members of the Episcopal bench, 
one of whom has been even engaged very innocently, 
we acknowledge in disturbing with his single voice 
that unanimity so dear to the Church, by upholding 
the I John, v. 7, which everybody else rejects ; and 
doubting the authenticity of Milton's ' Christian 
Doctrine,' which everybody else believes. Another 
right reverend author, to whose enlightened candour, 
erudition, and literary tastes we shall always be among 
the first to pay willing homage, has amused his classic 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 197 

leisure by composing two very interesting works on the 
writings of Tertullian and Justin Martyr; from the 
former of which our profane memories have carried 
away the following short and playful anecdote, related, 
as the bishop tells us, in Tertullian's Treatise, ' De 
Virginibus Velandis : ' A female, who had somewhat 
too liberally displayed her person, was thus addressed 
by an angel in a dream (cervices, quasi applauderet, 
verberans) 'Elegantes,' inquit, 'cervices et merito 
nudae ! ' This is all very well, and very harmless, but, 
in the meantime, while our bishops are thus culling 
flowers from the Fathers, such momentous questions 
as we have above alluded to, involving vitallv, it cannot 
be denied, the nearest interests of Christianity as 
troubling with doubt the very spring-head from which 
that ' Fount of Life ' flows remain unsifted and almost 
untouched ; while such humble inquirers after truth 
as ourselves are left wholly at the mercy of these inde- 
fatigable Grermans (who will write, and whom we cannot 
help reading), without any aid from our own established 
teachers of the truth, to enable us to detect their so- 
phistries, or sound the shallows of their learning. 

The policy of silence, however inglorious, was no 
doubt sufficiently safe, as long as the ignorance of the 
German language, prevailing throughout this country, 
rendered the heresies of the Wegscheiders and Fritzsches 
a * sealed fountain ' to most readers. But this state of 
things no longer exists. The study of German is be- 
coming universal ; translations multiply upon us daily, 
and we may soon expect to see our literary market 
glutted with rationalism. Nor is it only on the shelves 
of theology we shall have to encounter its visitations, 
for it can take all shapes ' mille habet ornatus.' It 
has, before now, lurked in a fable of Lessing, won its 



198 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

way in the form of a religious essay by Schiller, 1 and 
glimmered doubtfully through the bright mist of the 
6 Allemagne ' of Madame de Stael ; while a late ratio- 
nalising geologist among ourselves has contrived to 
insinuate its poison into a history of the primitive 
strata. 

Among the very few works this subject has as yet 
called forth are those which have been selected for the 
groundwork of this article, and whose contents we shall 
now proceed briefly to notice. We have already stated 
that the chief object of Mr. Rose's publication is to 
prove that to the want of an episcopal church establish- 
ment like that of which he is himself an aspiring 
minister the decline, and all but fall, of Grerman 
Protestantism is to be attributed. From this view of 
the matter Mr. Pusey ventures to differ. He thinks it 
possible that a Christian Church may exist without the 
constitution, liturgy, or articles of the Church of Eng- 
land, and does us the honour among other examples to 
cite the Church of Scotland. He is of opinion that 
the superintendents in the Lutheran Church are not 
very dissimilar from the bishops in the Church of Eng- 
land ; and he believes, on sufficient grounds, that sub- 
scription to the Symbolic books is universally required, 
the qualification to which Mr. Rose so much objects, 
being, he thinks, of comparatively recent introduction, 
and very partially adopted. He therefore, with a far 
more comprehensive view of his subject than could be 
expected from an eye long accustomed, like Mr. Rose's, 
to rest upon the bench of bishops as its origin, deduces 
the gradual deterioration of the Protestant spirit in 
Germany to causes, some of them even anterior to the 
formation of Protestant communities into a Church, 

1 The Jftnding of Moses a little essay, full of eloquence and 
rationalism. 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 199 

and most of them, we should ourselves add, too deep 
and strong for any form of church discipline whatever 
to have controlled. This use of his reasoning powers 
by the Oxford professor could not do otherwise than 
give mortal offence to Mr. Kose, both because he is 
himself (in more senses than one) an anti-rationalist, 
and because he foresaw danger therefrom to his own 
much-loved theory. Accordingly, without loss of 
time or anger, he sends forth a reply to Mr. Pusey, 
which, for ill temper and unfairness for the prodigal 
use of what Warburton calls c hard words and soft argu- 
ments ' has few parallels that we know of in the range 
even of theological controversy. For lack of seemlier 
modes of warfare, he has even resorted to that cry of 
' heresy ' in which the defeated champions of State doc- 
trines have always a sure resource ; and, in the face 
not only of declarations, but of sound proofs of Christian 
orthodoxy, on the part of Mr. Pusey, more than inti- 
mates that the historian of Rationalism is himself a 
Rationalist. To this attack Mr. Pusey has replied, in 
a second volume on the state of German Protestantism, 
and in which, with a style much improved and stores 
of learning still unexhausted, he develops still further 
his own views of this important subject ; and answers 
the cavils and insinuations of his angry assailant with 
a degree of dignity, firmness, and imperturbable ur- 
banity which cannot fail to inspire his readers with 
the sincerest admiration. 

Of the thick octavo volume of Professor Lee, the 
only portions that come within the scope of our present 
notice are his ' Dissertation on the Views and Principles 
of the Modern Eationalists of Germany,' and his criti- 
cisms on two distinguished ornaments of that school 
Bertholdt and Gesenius. That Professor Lee is a very 
learned person, we are not inclined to doubt ; but he 



200 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

would make but a sorry figure, we suspect, in the hands 
of the theologians of Halle. For his Chaldaic we have, 
of course, infinite respect ; but must confess, that, were 
we to judge him by his English, it would be with some 
difficulty we should keep out of our heads that unlucky 
French couplet 

Peut-tre, en latin, c'est un grand personnage, 
Mais, en frangais, c'est un/ &c. &c. 

In this gentleman's criticisms on the Christologia 
Judceorum of Bertholdt, it gives us no very promising 
notion of his familiarity with the works of the author 
whom he pretends to criticise to find him avowing his 
inability to cite Bertholdt's interpretation of the fifty- 
second and fifty-third chapters of Isaiah ; and this for 
the very simple and intelligible reason that he did not 
know where to find it. Out of this difficulty we think 
it but charitable to help the learned Professor, by 
referring him as well to a distinct essay of Bertholdt 
on the subject, as to the third part of this writer's 
treatise, De Ortu Theologice Hebrceorum, at the end of 
which Mr. Lee will find the interpretation he seeks. 

We have, however, a much graver charge than this 
of ignorance to bring against the Professor if, indeed, 
ignorance be not equally his excuse in both cases 
which is, that, in his strictures upon the commentary 
of Dr. Gesenius on Isaiah, he has, in one instance, 
totally misrepresented the opinions of that learned 
commentator ; and this injustice is the less excusable, 
as, in the novelty and boldness of the German's theories, 
there may be found abundance of heterodox points to 
attack, without thus falsely charging him with any 
others. 

In his observations on the fifty-second and fifty- 
third chapters of Isaiah, Gesenius contends, in opposition 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 201 

to the general opinion of Christians of all ages, and of 
many among the Jews themselves, that these passages 
cannot be interpreted as a direct prophecy of the 
Messiah ; and having proved, as he thinks, by a series 
of elaborate arguments, that the commonly received 
interpretation is to be rejected, he next enters into an 
inquiry as to the interpretation that ought to be 
substituted in its place. The conclusion he comes to 
at last is, that, in those passages where the Prophet 
speaks of the Servant of the Lord, he had in view not 
any one particular person, past, present, or future, but 
the body or aggregate of the prophets of the Lord 
collectively considered ; in other words, the Prophetic 
Order, which he thus personifies, describing their 
wrongs and their hopes as the wrongs and hopes of an 
individual, lamenting the long series of suffering, 
insult, and persecution they had endured, and looking 
forward with confidence to their future vindication and 
"triumph. 

With the arguments by which Dr. Gesenius en- 
deavours to sustain this hypothesis we have no concern 
at present, except to say that they appear to us, on the 
whole, strained and unsatisfactory. Such, however, is 
his deliberate view of the prophecy, and he has declared 
it as explicitly as words can speak. In the face of all 
this, Professor Lee having taken pains, as he with 
much simplicity tells us, to ' ascertain ' exactly the 
opinion of Gesenius comes forward and attributes to 
him an interpretation of the passage totally different 
from that which he has thus plainly and distinctly 
enounced. ' The servant of the Lord here mentioned,' 
says Mr. Lee, c is, according to Gesenius 's comment, the 
Prophet Isaiah.' Now, not only is it the fact that this 
interpretation is not that of Gesenius, but it will be 
.seen that Gesenius himself has taken great pains to 



202 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 

prove that the passage cannot be applied to Isaiah ; 
and for proof of this we refer to his work, where various 
interpretations of the passage, and its applications to 
Uzziah, Hezekiah, Josiah, Isaiah, and Jeremiah, are 
successively examined and rejected (Part Second, p. 

171). 

We should be inclined to consider this misrepresen- 
tation as merely a blunder of ignorance, had not Mr. 
Lee turned it to such triumphant account in taunting 
and exulting over his brother doctor. 1 He pursues, 
indeed, his fancied triumph through several pages r 
talking of ' the marvellous inconsistency of Isaiah 
suffering death by martyrdom, and yet enjoying long 
life as a reward ; ' and exclaiming exultingly, ' I should 
like to know how this servant of God could know that 
he was to become a martyr for the sins of the Jews.' 
This triumph of the professor, resembling as it doe& 
that of another valorous personage of whom we are 
told, ' He made the giants first, and then he killed 
them,' would be merely ridiculous were there not strong 
reasons for suspecting that there is full as much of un- 
fairness as of ignorance at the bottom of it. 

We have already ventured to criticise the learned 
Chaldaist's English ; we will now say a word about hi& 
German. In a passage immediately following that 
which we have above referred to, Gesenius says, c Die 
Kede des Propheten wechselt mit der Eede des Jehova 
so ab, dass LII. 13 15 Jehova zu reden fortfahrt, wie 
in dem Vorgehenden : LIU. I Der Prophet redet, und 
zwar communicativ in Namen seines Standes.' The 
meaning of this, according to our humble apprehension, 
is as follows : ' Jehovah and the prophet speak here 

1 Mr. Lee, among his many titles, counts that of D.D. of the 
University of Halle, an honour for which, as he himself boasts, he 
was indebted to this very Dr. Gesenius whom he thus disfigures. 



GERMAN RATIONALISM. 203 

alternately. Thus, at the end of the fifty-second 
chapter, it is Jehovah who continues to speak, as in 
the foregoing verses ; but in the beginning of the fifty- 
third chapter, it is the prophet who speaks, communi- 
catively indeed (or in the manner of one who is holding 
communication with others), and in the name of his 
order.' We shall now give Mr. Lee's translation of the 
passage: 'The speaking of the prophet is here so 
changed for that of Jehovah that, chapter LII. 15, 
Jehovah continues to speak as in the preceding context : 
in LIII. I, the Prophet communicates in the name 
proper for his own station? 

Having given these few specimens of Mr. Lee's 
capacity for the task he has undertaken, we shall now 
dismiss him, with a sentence which he himself has 
applied to poets, 1 but which strikes us as not altogether 
inapplicable to some prosers : 'It is greatly to be re- 
gretted that learned geniuses do not make themselves 
better informed on these subjects.' 

1 Note on Milman's History of the Jews, p. 146. 

['Told Murray, on his asking me had I seen the mention of 
Milman in the last Edinburgh (my own article), that I was myself 
the author of that article, and authorised him to tell Milman so in 
confidence. Murray asked M. had he any suspicion who wrote that 
article ; and on Milman's answering, "Not the least," " Could you 
at all have suspected our friend Moore of such an article ? " 
" Moore ! " exclaimed Milman. "No, no ; I know Moore to be very 
multifarious, but I don't think he has yet got to German theology." 
It was with some difficulty that, when I myself assured him that it 
was mine, I could get him to believe that I was serious.' Diary of 
Thomas Mooi'e, October 14, 1831. (Vol. vi. p. 226.)] 



204 



THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 1 

[APRIL 1834-] 

were beginning to fear that the good old race of 
etymologists and antiquarians were all extinct ; and 
most sincerely should we have lamented their loss. 
For, next to the fairy tales of our childhood, in nothing 
have we ever half so much delighted as in the lucubra- 
tions of these grave twisters of words these searchers 
after syllables through the vast night of time. When, 
sometimes, with the industrious and truly learned 
historian of Manchester, we have gone roaming in 
quest of Celtic roots (which seem to have the fecunda- 
ting effect of those of the mandrake upon a certain 
class of brains), and, by their aid, lighted upon the 
agreeable, though rather startling intelligence, that 
there existed sheriffs of the County of Wilts in the time 
of Julius Caesar ; 2 when, by the same means, we have 
discovered that the Briton who invited Caesar to this 
island was the unworthy son of no less honest citizen 
than the Chancellor of Albury College, in, or near 
London, 3 our delight, on finding ourselves so much at 
home with the Eoman conqueror and his co tempo- 
raries, was far too lively to let us pause upon any 
sceptical doubts, or think on how small a modicum of 
monosyllables the whole vision rested. 

But, of all the grave freaks of erudition, the sober 

1 2 he Round Towers of Ireland; or, The Mysteries of Freemasonry, 
of Sabaism, and of Buddhism, for tlie first time unveiled. ' Prize 
Essay ' of the Royal Irish Academy, enlarged, and embellished with 
numerous illustrations. By Henry O'Brien, Esq., A.B. 8vo. 
London, 1834. 

2 Specimen of an Etymological Vocabulary, tyc. p. 89. 

3 P. 177- 



THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 205 

antics of archaeology, that have, at times, diverted us, 
those of the gallant and venerable champion of Irish 
Antiquity, General Vallancey, assert the strongest 
claims to our recollection and gratitude. The exceed- 
ing complacency with which he detects an ancient 
Punic gentleman speaking good Irish, in one of 
Plautus's plays ; his modest suggestion, whether a gold 
collar, which had been picked up out of a turf-bog, in 
the County of -Limerick, might not be the actual 
Breastplate of Judgment the Urim and Thummim of 
the Jews ; l the conclusion he comes to, that the Iro- 
quois Indians of North America must be the very same 
people as the Irish, because the former call the sun 
Grounhia, and the later call him 2 Grian ; and, not to 
enumerate too many such dazzling speculations at once, 
his discovery that Ossian was the Messiah, and St. 
Patrick the Devil ; 3 these, and a number of other such 
erudite fancies, which are to be found in the same an- 
tiquarian's writings, we should have cited as unrivalled 
flights in this peculiar walk of research, had we not 
met with the ingenious and precious volume which 
forms the subject of this article. 

So long had Vallancey been accustomed to look at 
his beloved Ireland through an orientalizing medium, 
that she grew, at last, to be as completely an Eastern 
island, in his eyes, as if (like the Casa Santa which angels 
wafted, we are told, from Galilee to Loretto) the Green 
Isle had in times past been transported from the Sea 

1 Collectanea, No. 13. 

2 Vindication of the Ancient History of Ireland, p. 395. 

3 His (St. Patrick's) name was Succat. He said he was come to 
preach the doctrine of the great prophet Oishan (the Messiah) ; but 
the Magi, wishing to keep up their authority and religion, then 
declared, if Nian, i.e., Oishin, was come, then he, Succat, must be 
Pater ah, that is, the Devil, and from hence his name Patric.' Vind. 
251. 



206 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 

of Oman, or some other such summer quarters, and 
dropped, much to its discomposure, in the cold com- 
fortless Atlantic. That there exist strong traces of an 
Oriental origin in the language, character, and monu- 
ments of the Irish people, no fair inquirer into the 
subject will be inclined to deny. Vallancey himself, 
indeed, began with this moderate view of the matter ; 
and his first works, relating to Ireland, abound with 
materials of knowledge, which must always render them 
valuable to her historians and antiquaries. But by dint 
of reading and writing for ever on the same theme, by 
labouring constantly at his favourite parallel between 
the Easterns and the Irish, he at last worked himself 
into a state little short of monomania on the subject. 
Not content with merely deriving the Irish nation from 
the ancient Chaldaeans, Persians, Scytho-Iberians, or 
whatever other name he chose to give to their pro- 
.genitors, he seems, at last, to have almost persuaded 
himself that the offspring has changed but little on the 
way, and that the Irish continue to be good Chaldseans, 
Persians, Scytho-Iberians, &c., to this very day. 

Not only does he often quote vernacular Irish writers 
as good authorities respecting Eastern affairs, but even 
intimates that they know much more of the matter 
than the Easterns themselves; and the reason alleged 
by him for questioning the authenticity of the Phoe- 
nician history attributed to Sanchoniathon is, that it 
differs in some particulars respecting the Gabiric myste- 
ries from what Irish History has, it seems, recorded on 
the same recondite topic. The point at issue between 
Sanchoniathon and the Irish is thus, with ludicrous 
gravity, laid down by the learned General : 

This I venture to say, from comparing the Irish history 
of the Cabiri with the Phoenician; for example, why should 
Ouranus, the Heavens, marry his sister Ge, the Earth, and 



THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 207 

"bring forth, ist, Ilus, who is called Cronus ; 2nd, Betylus ; 
3rd, Dagon, who is Siton, or the god of corn ; and 4th, Atlas ; 
because in the Irish story, Aoran, the ploughman, marries Ge 
or Ce, the Earth, and the first ploughing brings forth Ilus, 
weeds, stones, oats, &c., &c. 

That we should have despaired of ever finding an- 
other such antiquarian one so rich in absurdity will 
hardly be deemed wonderful. But 'the thing that 
hath been is that which shall be;' and the cycle of 
human absurdity, if it does not, like the Periodic year 
of the Stoics, bring back the same man to say the same 
foolish thing, brings round others, at least to say it for 
him. Not only in the work on the ' Round Towers,' 
now before us, but also in another extraordinary pro- 
duction, entitled ' Nimrod,' as remarkable for its eccen- 
tricity as for its omnigenous erudition, there occur 
speculations respecting Ireland and her past history, 
which even Vallancey might wish his own ; and which 
show clearly that to write about that country almost as 
much unsettles the wits of people as to legislate for it. 

Taking up the notion that Ulysses, in the course of 
the various voyages attributed to him, passed some 
time in Ireland, ' I am strongly of opinion,' says the 
author of Nimrod, c that Ulysses is the original Pa- 
tricius of Ireland, celebrated in the style of a Saint, as 
Hercules, Perseus, and Triptolemus were at Antioch, 
and afterwards throughout Christendom, under the 
name of Georgius, the seventh champion.' Having 
thus satisfied himself that Ulysses was St. Patrick, he 
arrives, with equal ease, at the conclusion that Penelope 
was St. Bridget, 1 and informs us that her famous distaff 

1 The Greeks had a custom, long retained by the Athenians, of 
carrying, each new year, to their neighbour's house, an olive branch 
surrounded with wool, and called Eires-Ione, the Dove's-brancJitvith 
Wool ; and these yearly visits, I conceive, are nearly akin to those 



208 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 

is still preserved in the Island of Berkerry. Among 
his reasons for concluding that Ulysses was St. Patrick 
are the following : ' Ulysses, during his detention in 
Aiaia, was king of a host of swine ; and Patrick, during 
a six years' captivity in the hands of king Milcho or 
Malcho, was employed to keep swine. Ulysses flou- 
rished in Babel, and St. Patrick was born at Nem-Turris, 
or the Celestial Tower : the type of Babel, in Irish my- 
thology, is Tory Island, or the Island of the Tower.' 

Whether it is supposed by this learned gentleman 
that the poet Homer ever visited Ireland, we cannot 
very clearly make out ; but that some of Homer's near 
relatives were once quartered there is evidently his 
opinion. 'At the time of St. Patrick's landing,' he 
says, ' Niul of the nine hostages was King of Ireland ; 
but I strongly suspect the fable of his hostages origi- 
nated in Homer's name being supposed to mean a 
hostage, and that the nine hostages are nine Homers, 
or successions of Homeridse, from Niul the Learned.' * 
The Irish might well afford to spare one Ossian to Mac- 
pherson, when they were so well supplied with Homers. 
The fabulous cave, in the province of Ulster, called 
St. Patrick's Purgatory, he supposes to be the fosse dug 
by Ulysses as mentioned in the Odyssey ; and his mode 
of accounting for the name of Ulster, on this suppo- 
sition, is not a little ingenious. < The fossa Patricii,' 
he says, ' was in the province called Ulidia, Oylister, 
or Ulster, which seems to me to be Ulyssis Terra. 1 

mentioned by Suidas in 'Kl. Now, the Celts of Britain or Armo- 
rica, in France, have the like custom of going with the mistletoe to 
each other's doors at the new 'year, crying, "au gui 1'an neuf." 
That the branch with wool relates to the distaff of Penelope, or St. 
Bridget, I think probable from Homer's line, 

AUT^ 5' IGTOV vtycuvoi frr' yXfKTpa) jSe/Jauta.' 

Nimrod, vol. ii. p. 662. 
1 P. 639- 



THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 209 

We cannot, even thus passingly, advert to this very 
singular work without expressing seriously our regret 
that such rich and varied stores of scholarship, so much 
refined ingenuity and industrious zeal, should have been 
employed in researches which but longsomely and 
laboriously lead to nothing, and speculations little 
more sound than are a sick man's dreams. 

We have now to ascend, even still higher, the cloud- 
capt regions of Antiquarianism, in order to arrive at 
Mr. O'Brien, who sits supreme in his vocation ' sedet 
altus Olympo ' overtopping even the old Pelion, 
Vallancey himself. Though this gentleman's present 
labours refer chiefly to that most fertile source of 
wonderment and conjecture, the Irish Round Towers, 
the remote date of these venerable structures throws 
open so wide a play-ground to the fancy, that he must 
be a puny Milesian who could not, like Sir Callaghan 
O'Brallaghan, ' people ' the whole space between ' with 
his own hands.' The original essay, of which the 
volume before us is an enlargement, obtained one of 
the prizes proposed by the Eoyal Irish Academy, in the 
year 1832, for the best essay on the subject of the 
Round Towers of Ireland. Conceiving himself alone 
to be in the secret of the birth, parentage, and bringing 
up of these Towers, Mr. O'Brien naturally felt aggrieved 
by the decision of the Council, which adjudged the 
principal prize to another, and, as he thought, unduly 
favoured competitor ; and a correspondence ensued in 
consequence between him and some of the officers of 
the Academy, which is now laid before the public in the 
Preface to the present work. 

Mr. O'Brien's anxiety for the preservation of his 
great secret respecting the Towers seems to have haunted 
him even to the very eve of its disclosure, as appears 
from the following note, addressed by him to a brother 



210 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 

antiquarian, Mr. Godfrey Higgins, the author of ' The 
Celtic Druids : ' 

May 2, 1833. 

Dear Sir, I hope you will not feel displeased at the 
frankness of this question which I am about to propose to 
you, viz., have you any objection to show me, in the manu- 
script before you send to print, the terms in which you speak 
of me, in reference to those points of information which I 
intrusted to your confidence such as the ancient names of 
Ireland, and their derivation, the towers and founders, 
dates, &c. ? 

Should you think proper to consent to this feeling of 
anxiety on my part, I shall be most willing to share with 
you those other ' points ' which I exclusively retain. To the 
full extent you shall have these, &c. 

Mr. Higgins' answer to the above note follows, and 
from this document it transpires that the Eound Towers 
were not Mr. O'Brien's only secret, but that he also 
knew something about the Indian god, Buddha, which 
he was no less anxious to keep concealed from the ears 
of the profane. 

May 3, 1833. 

My dear O'Brien, ;You may be perfectly assured I shall 
print nothing which I have learned from you without ac- 
knowledging it. But I have really forgotten what you told 
me, because I considered that I should see it in print in a 
few days. Any thing I shall write on the subject will not 
be printed for years after your books have been before the 
public. You did not tell me the name of Buddha, but I 
told it you, that it was Saca or Saca-sa, which I have already 
printed a hundred times, and can show you in my great 
quarto, when you take your tea with me, as I hope you will 
to-morrow. Sir W. Betham told me of the Fire Towers 
being * * * * last night, at the Antiquarian Society. 

Yours truly, 

G. HIGGINS. 



THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 211 

It will be seen from this that Mr. Higgins who, 
being an antiquarian himself, ought to have known 
better had not only promulgated, before the 'time 
was ripe,' the ineffable name Saca-sa, but had even 
blabbed, at a learned rout, the great secret of the 
Eound Towers. Not to subject ourselves to a charge 
of similar imprudence, we have thrown, as the reader 
sees, a modest veil of asterisks round the mystery, being 
resolved (for our own parts at least) to keep Mr. 
O'Brien's secret religiously and faithfully. We may be 
told that already it is all in print, but publishing is not 
always divulging ; and we would almost pledge our- 
selves that the secret of this book will be nearly as safe 
in the hands of its respectable publishers, Messrs. 
Whittaker & Co., Ave Maria Lane, as in Mr. O'Brien's 
own breast. 

Before we part, however, with his great mystery, we 
must say a word or two as to his boast of being himself 
the first promulgator of it. On the contrary, General 
Vallancey, from whom he has had most of his learned 
vagaries at second hand, is, in this instance also, bis 
provider; that imaginative General having drawn 
frequent parallels between the Muidhr of the Irish and 
the Mahadeva of the Hindus, between the emblem 
called Dia Teibith by the former, and the mystic 
Bahva of the latter. In the remarkable work, too, 
called ' Nimrod,' which we have just cited, and which 
lias been before the public some years, Mr. O'Brien 
will find this great discovery, which he so grandly 
proclaims to be ' now for the first time revealed,' stated 
quietly, in a single sentence, with as much sang froid 
as if it was no discovery at all. ' They are fire-temples ' 
(says the author of 'Nimrod') ' and ithyphallic Nim- 
rodian towers.' The contrast, indeed, between a self- 
satisfied Englishman and a self-satisfied Irishman could 



212 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 

not be better illustrated than by the juxtaposition of 
this short, pithy assertion, with the following lo tri- 
umphe of Mr. O'Brien : < Will this be considered the 
vapouring of conceit ? Is it the spouting of self- 
sufficient inanity ? Let the heartless utilitarian, un- 
able to appreciate the motives which first enlisted me 
in this inquiry, and which still fascinate my zeal at an 
age when, did not my love for truth and the rectifi- 
cation of my country's history, rise superior to the 
mortification of alienated honour, I should have flung 
from me letters and literature in disgust, and betaken 
myself an adventurer for distinction as a soldier let 
such, I say, conceal within himself his despicable 
worldly-mindedness, and leave me unmolested, if un- 
rewarded, to posterity.' (P. 130.) 

Again, in commemorating Persia as the builder of 
the Irish Eound Towers, he exclaims : ' This was the 
moment of Persia's halcyon pride, this the period of 
her earthly coruscation : to this have all the faculties 
of my ardent mind been addressed ; and while, in the 
humble consciousness of successful investigation, I 
announce its issue to have far exceeded my hopes, I 
shall avail myself of the industry of preceding inquirers 
to throw light upon the intervals of value which in- 
tervene.' (P. 178.) 

We have also another remark to venture with re- 
spect to one of the engravings with which Mr. O'Brien 
has decorated his book. We recollect, in Sir Walter 
Scott's Life of Dryden, where he mentions the compli- 
ment intended by Tonson to King William, in having 
the features of ^Eneas, in all the prints to Dryden's 
Virgil, made to resemble those of the monarch, the 
illustrious biographer tells us that the engraver con- 
trived ' to aggravate the nose of ^Eneas into a sufficient- 
resemblance to the hooked promontory of the Deliverer's 



THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 213 

countenance.' In a similar manner we suspect that 
Mr. O'Brien's engraver has been induced to accommo- 
date the Tower of Clondalkin to his learned employer's 
theory. We say no more : norunt fideles. 

In most of his general views Mr. O'Brien follows 
implicitly, as we have said, in the steps of Vallancey. 
With that great mixer-up of nations he conceives the 
dhaldaeans to have been among the earliest colonists of 
Ireland, supplying this colony from his own pure fancy, 
with an order of priests called Borades, by whom the 
Scythian Druids that succeeded them were instructed, 
he says, in' all sorts of knowledge. Like Vallancey, 
too, he seems well disposed to make the most of the 
Irish in the way of antiquarianism, by converting them 
into a number of other people, besides Chaldseans, such 
as Etrurians, Hindus, Pishdadians, Egyptians, etc. 

The famous traveller, Bishop Pococke, on visiting 
Ireland after his return from the East ? was much 
struck, as a letter of his own informs us, with ' the 
amazing conformity ' he observed between the Irish 
and the Egyptians ; and a wag of the present day has 
pointed out a mark of affinity between the two nations, 
which, to our minds, is quite as satisfactory as any 
that Bishop Pococke himself could suggest. It runs 
thus : 

According to some learn'd opinions, 

The Irish once were Carthaginians ; 

But, judging from some late descriptions, 

I'd rather say they were Egyptians. 

My reason's this : the Priests of Isis, 

When forth they march'd, in grand array, 

Employ'd, 'mong other strange devices, 
A Sacred Ass to lead the way. 

And still the antiquarian traces, 

'Mong Irish lords, this Pagan plan ; 

For still in all religious cases 

They put Lord R n in the van. 



214 THE HOUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 

It is no doubt in consequence of this particular 
origin of his countrymen that Mr. O'Brien assures us 
the Egyptian name Osiris ought to be written, in the 
proper Milesian manner, O'Siris, like O'Grorman Mahon, 
or O'Brien. 

By Shaw, Jones, and other African travellers, we 
have been furnished with vocabularies of the language 
spoken by the people of Mount Atlas ; and the close 
resemblance which not only their language, but also some 
of their national customs, bear to those of the people of 
Ireland, are remarked strongly by Jones. Their man- 
ner particularly of crying out the Ulalu, or, as they 
read it, ' Wiley, wiley, wogh, wogh,' over the dead, and 
their exclamations, ' Why did you die ? ' are described 
by this traveller as strikingly Irish. 1 Whatever grounds 
there may be for these representations, we ourselves 
once heard a Moorish gentleman, who has been many 
years resident in England, relate a circumstance so 
curiously coincident with the accounts of these tra- 
vellers that we feel ourselves tempted to repeat it 
briefly here. Being, for a short time, on a visit to 
Ireland, and happening to stop one day at the post- 
office of a small country town to inquire for letters,, 
he heard with surprise a language sounding in his ears,, 
whose tones for a moment made him believe himself in 
his own country. It was the conversation, in Irish, of 
some poor people who had thronged to look at him, and 
resembled remarkably, he said, the language of the 
Brerebbers, or African mountaineers ; a language which, 
by some writers, is said to be a corruption of the an- 
cient Punic or Numidian. 

1 Shillensis populus eundem quern Arabes, Judasi, et Hiberni 
habent ritum mortem amicorum deplorandi, vociferando Wiley! 
wiley ! wogh ! wogh ! &c. terrain in ordine pulsantes, sculpentes 
vultum et evellentes crines suos, dicendo woe! woe! cur mortuua 
es 1 woe ! woe ! ' Jones, Dissertatio de lingua Shillensi. 



THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 215 

A version which we have heard of this anecdote 
represents our Moorish friend as saying that he under- 
stood these people, and could converse with them ; but 
our memory does not authorise us in venturing so far. 
Here, however, is a scent for Mr. O'Brien, by following 
which all Mauritania may be transported to Connaught, 
or vice versa, just as it may suit his purpose. If we 
are to believe Jones, these original Irish of Mount 
Atlas are already all dressed for the occasion ; as they 
wear, it seems, exactly the same sort of kilt, or phi la- 
beg, which used to be worn by the ancient Hibernians, 
and which we of Scotland have inherited from them. 1 
Already the site of Carthage is signalised, not only 
by the Irish gentleman from that city, who figures in 
Plautus, but by those good cakes, spotted over with the 
seeds of poppy, coriander, and saffron, which are, to 
this day, known in Dublin by the Oriental name of 
baran breac. 2 Under the auspices of Mr. O'Brien, the 
empire of the Nemedi, or Numidians, may be restored ; 
and who knows but he may even resuscitate that famed 
c Mauritanian Eepublic ' by a pretended proclamation 
from which poor Sir Kobert Wilson was once so well 
hoaxed in his early, fraternising days ? 

Having said so much of Mr. O'Brien, we feel that 
we are bound to let him speak a little for himself; and 
shall, therefore, through the remainder of this article, 
treat the reader to our author's ipsissima verba. Per- 
ceiving how extensive is his acquaintance with all the 
Eastern dialects, we were for some time doubtful as 
to which of them his own style principally follows ; 
but the information which he himself affords on this 



1 'Habitus eorum similis est Hibernico, involvunt enim sese 
lodicibus, vel lickseeas duabus ulnis largis et 3 vel 4 longis : mu- 
lieres Hlbernicarum more liberos humeris circumferunt.' Ib. 

2 Ledwick, Letter to Governor Pownal. 



216 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 

point relieves us from our uncertainty. After some 
remarks on the use of the initial letter E in the Persico- 
Hibernian language, he proceeds thus : 

'' ' The prefixing of this letter, in both instances of its occur- 
rence, whether we regard the Eastern or Western hemi- 
sphere (i.e., Persia or Ireland), was neither the result of 
chance, nor intended as an operative in the import of the 
term. It was a mere dialectal distinction appertaining to the 
court language of the dynasty of the times, and, what is 
astounclingly miraculous, retains the same appellation, with 
literal precision, unimpaired, unadiilterated, in both countries, 
up to the moment in which I write. 

Palavhi is the appellation of this courtly dialect in. Persia, 
and Palahver is the epithet assigned to it in Ireland ; and 
such is the softness and mellifluence of its exchanting tones, 
and its energy also, that to soothe care, to excite sensibility, 
or to stimulate heroism, it may properly be designated as 
'the language of the Gods.' (P. 121.) 

The specimens of the Palahver, or Court language, 
which we are about to exhibit must be considered, we 
presume, as of the most refined kind ; though we con- 
fess our own learned researches would have suggested 
to us the Phoenician term, Phudge, as the most fitting 
and appropriate for them. Speaking of the various 
types and epithets under which woman and her attri- 
butes have been described in all the various mythologies 
of antiquity, he says : 

Of all those various epithets, however vitiated by time, or 
injured by accommodation to different climates and lan- 
guages, the import intact and undamaged is still preserved 
in the primitive Irish tongue, 1 and in that alone; and with 
that fertility of conception whereby it engendered all myths, 
and kept the human intellect suspended by its verbal phan- 
tasmagoria, we shall find the drift and the design, the type 

1 The Italics throughout are all Mr. O'Brien's own. 



THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 217 

and the thing typified, united in the ligature of one appella- 
tive chord, which, to the enlightened and the few, presented a 
chastened, yet sublime and microscopic, moral delineation ; 
but, to the profane and the many, was an impenetrable 
night, producing submission the most slavish and mental 
prostration the most abject ; or, wherever a ray of the equi- 
voque did happen to reach their eyes, perverted, with that 
propensity which we all have to the depraved, into the most 
reckless indulgence and the most profligate licentiousness. 

(P. 212.) 

The names given to goddesses, he tells us, are to be 
taken in a double meaning, as referring equally to love 
and astronomy, thus : 

From Astarte ('Aorapr?/), the Greeks formed Aster ('AOTJ/JO), 
a star, thereby retaining but one branch of this duplicity. 
The Irish deduced from it the well-known endearment, 
Astore ; and I believe I do not exaggerate when I affirm, 
that in the whole circuit of dialectal enunciations, there exists 
not another sound calculated to convey to a native of this 
country so many commingling ideas of tender pathos and of 
exalted adventure as this syllabic representation of the lunar 
deity. (P. 213.) 

In exposing some error of his great precursor, 
Vallancey, he thus eloquently characterises him : 

This is but an item in that great ocean of incertitude in 
which that enterprising etymologist had, unfortunately, been 
swallowed up. Having perceived, by the perusal of the 
manuscripts of our country, that there must have been a 
time when it basked in the sunshine of literary superiority ; 
yet unable tangibly to grapple with it, having no clue into the 
origin of its sacred repute, or the collateral particulars of its 
date, nature, or supporters, he was tossed about by the 
ferment of a parturient imagination, without the saving 
ballast of a discriminating faculty. (P. 254.) 

After amassing proofs of his theory from mythology 



218 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 

and etymology, our author next draws, for the same 
purpose, upon theology; and having proved, to his 
own satisfaction, that all the knowledge derived by 
Moses from the Egyptians respecting the Creation, the 
Deluge, and the Fall, was learned by the latter from 
the Pish-de-danaan ancestors of the Irish, he comes to 
the conclusion that the Jewish legislator, though 
'talented and otherwise highly favoured,' was wholly 
ignorant of the real meaning of what the Egyptians 
had taught him ; and this ignorance he conceives (if 
we rightly understand the following paragraph) to 
have arisen solely from the unlucky circumstance of 
Moses never having learned Irish : 

But though it is undeniable, from their symbols, that the 
Egyptians must have been well apprised of the constitution 
of those rites, yet am I as satisfied as I am of my physical 
motion that the folding of that web, in which they were so 
mystically doubled, was lost to their grasp in the labyrinths of 
antiquity. 

Moses, therefore, could not have learned from the Egyp- 
tians more than the Egyptians themselves had known. He 
related the allegory as he had received it from them ; and it 
is, doubtless, to his ignorance of its ambiguous interpretation, 
accessible only through that language in which it was origin- 
ally involved, that we are indebted for a transmission so 
essentially Irish. (P. 281.) 

Another source of theological error, which he traces 
equally to a want of knowledge of the Irish, is the 
false interpretation given, as he thinks, to the opening 
verses of the Gospel of St. John, and more particularly 
to the word Logos, the true meaning of which is to be 
sought, not in Greek, but in Irish : 

Having asserted that the preliminary part was inalienably 
Irish, I now undertake to prove a radical misconception, 
nay, a derogation from the majesty of the Messiah, to have 



THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 219 

crept into the text, in consequence of its having been trans- 
lated by persons unacquainted with that language ! The 
term logos, which you render word, means to an iota the 
spiritual flame log, or logh, being the original denomina- 
tion. The Greeks, who have borrowed all their religion from 
the Irish, adopted this also from their vocabulary ; but its 
form not being suited to the genius of their language, they 
fashioned it thereto by adding the termination os, &$Jtog1ios. 
-(P. 484.) 

There is still much more of this rich and rare 
matter, every page, indeed, would afford specimens of 
it ; nor is there any lack, as we have seen, of that sort 
of Irish eloquence, which, like the old Appian Way, 
holds on its course for some time prosperously, and 
then loses itself in a bog. We have also a good deal 
of the sort of etymology described in the following 
French epigram : 

Alfana vient d' equus sans doute : 
Mais il faut avouer aussi, 
Qu'en venant dela jusqu'ici, 
II a bien chang6 sur sa route.' 

But, however our own foiblesse for such specula- 
tions might tempt us to select a few more samples, we 
suspect that by this time our readers have had quite 
enough of them. 

It can hardly be necessary, we trust, to say, that to 
no deficiency whatever of reverence for the high and 
authentic claims of Ireland to antiquity, nor to any 
want of deep interest in her history, is the light tone 
we may seem to have indulged, in the preceding re- 
marks, to be attributed. If some more ardent than 
judicious among her champions have erred through 
excess of zeal, and brought ridicule on a good cause by 
the extravagance of their advocacy, there are some, 



220 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 

on the other hand, who have succeeded in shedding 
over her past times and records that steady light which 
alone distinguishes the bounds of truth from those of 
fiction. By the work of the late venerable librarian of 
Stowe, the authenticity of the Irish chronicles is placed 
beyond dispute, and the essay of Mr. Dalton on the 
religion, learning, arts, and government of Ireland, 
abounds with research on these several subjects, alike 
creditable to his industry and his judgment. Let us 
hope that the same service which these and other 
sensible Irishmen have achieved for their country's 
ancient history will be effected also for the modern, 
by the work which is now expected from Mr. Moore. 1 

1 Another mystification, like Sonthey's mention of his own name 
in The Doctor, in order to, conceal the authorship of the article. The 
following entry in Moore's Diary, under date May 5, 1834, authen- 
ticates it as his : A column of extract in The Times from my 
article on " The Round Towers," given as from an able and lively 
article in the last Edinburgh? (Vol. vii. p. 31.) ED. 



A LETTER 



TO THE 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN 



AKEAET5TO2 

AMI20O2 

^EscHYL. Agamemnon. 

[Originally published in 1810.] 



A LETTBE. 

'THOUGH the late resolutions of your committee in 
Dublin 1 seem intended to be final upon the subject of 
the Veto, let us hope that a question so vitally connected 
with the freedom, peace, and stability of the Empire 
may not be dismissed with such hasty and absolute 
decision. The discussion has hitherto been carried on 
with a degree of warmth and passion which, however 
creditable to the feelings of those engaged in it, has 
certainly tended but little to the improvement of their 
reasoning powers. Indeed, it is but an abuse of 
language to dignify with the name of discussion either 
the proceedings or the writings to which the question 
has hitherto given rise. Those orators and authors 
who live but by nattering your prejudices, having 
found that you look to but one point of the compass 
for argument, have set in from that quarter with a 
regular trade-wind of declamation, which neither your 
Bishops, your friends, nor common sense have been 
able to withstand. In this state of the question, it 
requires no ordinary share of indifference to the taunts 
and suspicions of the illiberal, the misinterpretations 
of the ignorant, and the cold-blooded rancour of the 
bigoted, to stand forth as the advocate of this required 
concession, and to urge it as the sole, the necessary 
sacrifice, by which you are to deserve the liberties 
which you demand. Inadequate as I am to this under- 

1 March 2, 1810. 



224 A LETTER TO THE 

taking, and entering the lists, like David, in armour 
' which I have not proved,' I am yet conscious of bring- 
ing an honesty of feeling to the task, a zeal for my 
country's honour, and an ardent wish for her liberties, 
which entitle me to attention at least, though they 
should fail in producing conviction. 

The first point which naturally comes under con- 
sideration, in a subject where the interests of religion 
are concerned, is the conduct of your bishops; and here 
at the outset we meet with that insurmountable fact 
(which your lay-theologians would so willingly throw 
into the shade), that, in the year 1799, four metro- 
politans and six prelates professed themselves willing, 
as the price of Catholic emancipation, to concede to 
the Government a control upon the appointment of 
your bishops, and signed a formal document to that 
effect. This stipulated basis of negotiation, so solemnly 
agreed to by ten of your spiritual magistrates, has been 
since retracted ; and the defence resorted to by those 
who think it necessary to apologise for the conduct of 
these prelates, and explain away the awkwardness of 
the retractation, wears so strongly the features of 
Jesuitical evasion that I blush for its parents and 
adopters. c It was a moment of panic,' they tell us, 
c in which these venerable men were surprised ; and na 
stipulation, extorted in such circumstances, could 
possibly be meant or considered as binding.' Observe, 
however, the dilemma in which this document of 1799 
has involved the opposers of the Veto. If the bishops 
were right in making this concession, if, acquainted, as 
they must be intimately, with the essentials of your 
faith and the interests of your hierarchy, they yet saw 
nothing in the proposed pledge which was likely to 
violate or endanger either, then the principal argu- 
ment against the Veto must, of course, fall point- 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 225 

less to the ground. But if, on the contrary, they were 
false in their trust, if, believing (as their lay masters 
would have them believe) that the measure was deeply 
injurious to the Church, so large a portion of your 
dignified clergy were driven by fear or seduced by 
emolument to sign what they considered the death- 
warrant of their faith, then, I ask, would not your 
rulers be justified in suspecting the integrity of these 
men, and in asking for some guard against the appoint- 
ment of persons so ineligible, in the event of your 
becoming co-partners in the Constitution? Could they, 
who had failed in faith, be expected to prove steady in 
politics ? or would not the same hands which had sur- 
rendered your Church to the Government in like 
manner surrender that Government to the enemy ? 
Such is the alternative to which we are forced, by those 
violent charges and insidious vindications with which 
the members of your episcopacy have been assailed: 
the less upright and trustworthy they make your 
bishops appear, the more fully do they justify the 
Grovernment in demanding some security against the 
appointment of such persons in future. 

But the characters of these venerable men are a 
sufficient answer to so gross an imputation. It is 
worse than insult to suspect that, if they had perceived 
in the measure any one of those ruinous results so 
boldly and fancifully predicted by your orators, they 
could have lapsed, for a moment, through motives of 
fear or ambition, into such an act of spiritual treason, 
such a recreant abandonment of their ministry. It is 
quite impossible; and we are therefore warranted in 
considering those anti-catholic terrors in which the 
Veto is arrayed as the dreams of ignorant, though 
perhaps well-meaning alarmists, who, if they could be 
prevailed upon to adopt the philosophy of Panurge, 

Q 



226 A LETTER TO THE 

and c fear nothing but danger,' would be much more 
respectable in their panic, and might be somewhat 
more easily relieved from it. 

The second occasion which called forth the senti- 
ments of your bishops was the clamour excited in the 
year 1808, when your parliamentary friends, upon the 
authority of this document and the corroborating 
information of Dr. Milner, declared that, in the event 
of your full emancipation, a negative control upon 
the nomination of your bishops would be vested, as a 
pledge of security, in the Crown. The effect which 
this proposal produced upon the Parliament and people 
of England must be remembered with a mixture of 
pleasure and regret, for the brightness of its promise 
and the shortness of its duration. The hopes of your 
friends were kindled into confidence ; the fears of the 
timid and the doubts of the conscientious were allayed 
and satisfied by this liberal compromise; and the 
champions of intolerance saw, with dismay, the last 
dark barrier of exclusion disappearing. But transient 
indeed was this lucid interval. In the very act of 
curing the folly of your adversaries you were suddenly 
seized with the infection yourselves ; and the senseless 
cry of c The church is in danger ' was just dying away 
upon the lips of Protestants, when it was caught up by 
Catholics, and echoed with emulous vociferation. 

The laity were the first to give the alarm ; the 
proposed concession was denounced as an act of apostasy; 
and your friends, not less than your enemies, were 
charged with a design to overturn the Catholic religion 
in Ireland ; Dr. Milner was degraded from an apostle 
into a hireling, and your bishops were called upon, with 
the most indecorous menaces, to disavow the conciliatory 
spirit r which he had imputed to them. And here, let 
me ask, can anyone suppose for an instant that Dr. 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 227 

Milner, the acknowledged agent of your hierarchy (with 
whose sentiments, upon every bearing of the question, 
he must have made himself intimately conversant), is 
it rational to think that he would have ventured even 
to hint at an arrangement which he considered in the 
last degree unwelcome to the feelings and principles of 
his constituents? It is not to be imagined; and, though 
I am but little inclined to argue from Dr. Milner's 
consistency, being of opinion that there is, in this right 
reverend scholar, a certain irresponsible unsteadiness of 
judgment, which not even his studies of Cabbasutius 
and Thomasinus l have been heavy enough to ballast 
sufficiently, it is impossible, I think, not to see, in his 
conduct upon this occasion, a conclusive proof that the 
great body of your prelates was by no means averse 
from the concession of a negative to the Crown. 

The alarm, however, was gone abroad, a rash and 
unreasoning laity were taught to see perils and mischiefs 
in the measure, which had escaped the eyes of those 
most interested and best informed upon the subject. 
The decisions of the ignorant are always violent, in 
proportion to their erroneousness ; furiosa res est in 
tenebris impetus; not a whisper of argument was 
heard ; not a single link of the drag-chain of reason 
was suffered to retard the down-hill precipitancy of 
passion, nor could the tried and active fidelity of years 
protect your friends from the ungenerous charge of 

1 Two favourite authors of Dr. Milner. I confess I am un- 
grateful enough to wish that, before Dr. Milner did us the honour 
of visiting Ireland, he had consulted his friend Cabbasutius for 
some of those canons which so wisely forbid ecclesiastics to travel. 
He will find something to this purpose in p. 591 of the Notitia 
Ecelesiastica, and also amongst the Canons of the Concilium 
JSudense, the 64th of which complains that it was the practice of 
clergymen 'tarn turpiter quam damnabiliter per terram saepius 
evagari.' Cabbasut. Not. Eeclesiast. p. 476, 

Q 2 



228 A LETTER TO THE 

having prevaricated with your interests and conspired 
against your faith. In the midst of this ferment a 
general meeting of your prelates was assembled, and I 
question much if they did not perceive, in the insolent 
tone with which the laity dictated to them, more 
danger to the peace and unity of your church than 
centuries of Government interference could threaten. 
Let us see, however, the result of this synod. Did they 
retract or condemn the principle of their former con- 
cession ? Did they, in any way, authorise those alarms 
for the safety of your religion which had been so indus- 
triously circulated among the laity? Did they intimate, 
even in the remotest manner, that this proposed price 
of your complete disenthralment was incompatible with 
their doctrine, discipline, or principles ? By no means* 
They merely passed a resolution (in which they were 
perhaps justified by the ferment of the public mind at 
the moment) that it was inexpedient to alter the 
existing mode of nomination not dangerous, observe, 
nor heterodox, nor anti-Catholic, nor any of those 
sanbenito l epithets, in which your orators still clothe 
the measure, but simply inexpedient; and, as if not 
content with this virtual admission of the perfect com- 
patibility of a Veto with the Catholic faith and disci- 
pline, they voted the thanks of the synod to Dr. Milner, 
to that very Dr. Milner who had just answered for their 
friendliness to the measure, and whose representation of 
their sentiments respecting it they had been so menac- 
ingly called upon by the laity to disavow. Such, after 
all, was the extent of the palinode which your clamours 
extorted from the bishops in 1808. They acknowledged 
the representative services of Dr. Milner, thus sanction- 

1 The name of the garment worn by those who were con- 
demned by the Inquisition ; ' more properly (says Townsend) saw 
lendito,' 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 229 

ing the principle of that concession which he had 
offered in their names, and, instead of entrenching 
themselves behind any of those pertinacious objections 
by which some persons would willingly shut out con- 
ciliation for ever, they merely took shelter (and rather 
from their flocks than their rulers) behind the light and 
surmountable fence of inexpediency, an obstacle which, 
as it was raised in deference to the infatuation of the 
laity, awaits but the return of their good sense to show 
its untenable futility. 

I am not aware that I have assumed too much, in 
the dispositions which I here attribute to your prelates, 
throughout the entire discussion of the Veto ; and yet 
this is the measure, thus virtually approved by them, 
thus formally conceded at first, and at last rather 
reserved than retracted, which the wrong-headed poli- 
ticians amongst you, in contempt of their spiritual 
guides, have branded as impious, deadly, and apostatical ; 
this is the condition of your liberties, for his luminous 
enforcement of which Lord Grrenville is now grossly 
and ungratefully calumniated, as a sophisticator of your 
cause and a conspirator against your religion : and this 
is the pledge to whose pretended inexpediency the 
bigoted and the factious would not hesitate to sacrifice 
the freedom of Ireland, and the harmony of the whole 
empire, more wicked in their folly than that people of 
antiquity, 1 who set a fly upon an altar, and sacrificed an 
ox >to it! 

In addition to the implied acquiescence of your 
prelates (implied, I think, satisfactorily, from the fore- 
going review of their conduct), when we know that the 
vicars apostolical of England have all, with the excep- 
tion of the consistent Dr. Milner, expressed themselves 

1 Mentioned by Aelian, and alluded to by Addison in his Free- 
liolder. 



230 A LETTER TO THE 

favourable to the proposed arrangement, we cannot but 
feel indignant at the audacity of those lay pamphleteers, 
who still officiously interfere with the jurisdiction of 
your hierarchy, and persist in arraigning, as ruinous 
and impious, a measure which its spiritual judges have 
acquitted of all but inexpediency. At the same time > 
it must be confessed that the disposition which the 
laity have shown, in encroaching upon the province of 
their clergy in this question, and presuming to know 
their duties much better than themselves, is, in com- 
mon life, but too frequently the characteristic of our 
countrymen, who would, most of them, much rather let 
their own affairs run to ruin than incur the least 
suspicion of being ignorant of those of their neighbours. 
To this disinterested activity, this supererogating spirit 
(so worthy of an c insula sanctorum* like ours), we are 
indebted, I doubt not, for much of that solicitude 
'which your laity insist upon feeling for the honour and 
safety of the hierarchy. There are many, however^ 
whose opposition to the measure is founded upon 
deeper and less innocent motives. Queen Elizabeth^ 
as we are told by Secretary Walsingham, distinguished 
Papists in conscience from Papists in faction; and, 
however little she. may deserve, in general, to be cited 
as a precedent in such cases, I believe we shall but da 
justice to the opposers of the Veto if we divide them 
into the same two classes. To the Anti-Vetoists in 
conscience, therefore to those whose apprehensions, 
however' groundless, are at least sincere, and many of 
whom, without examining the subject themselves, have 
merely taken up those ready-made terrors, of which 
your orators keep such a constant supply I shall, with 
deference, submit a few considerations, which may 
soften, if they do not remove, those objections which 
have been considered so formidable; and, as arguments- 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 231 

on this side of the question are strangers to your ears, I 
cannot doubt that your ears will receive them hospitably. 
With respect to the supremacy of the Pope, it has 
not, I believe, been asserted, even by those who possess 
most facility of assertion, that his interference in the 
nomination of bishops, any farther than the form of 
recognition, or his exercise of an appellatory jurisdiction 
upon matters relating to discipline, are, in any degree, 
necessary to the existence or purity of a Catholic 
hierarchy. Indeed, the example of the Grallican 
church, 1 so long free and so long illustrious, sufficiently 
proves the full compatibility of liberty with reverence, 
of independence with orthodoxy. From the conflict 
which her enlightened divines maintained against the 
pretensions of Rome your religion rose purer and 
firmer than it had stood for many ages before; and 
those slavish notions of Papal authority, which had 
been taken up in times of darkness, and clung to 
during the storm of the Reformation, 2 were cast off as 

1 'Why a man may not be a Romanist without being a Papist, 
in Ireland as well as in France, I can see no reason. We know 
that the Gallican Church has long been emancipated from the 
thraldom of the Roman Pontiff.' Campbell's Survey of the South of 
Ireland, in 1775- 

2 The advances which the Church and Court of Rome were 
making towards purity of doctrine and practice, when they were 
checked by the turbulent burst of the Reformation, are strongly 
acknowledged by Hume in the following curious passage, which 
(according to Towers) is to be found only in the first edition of his 
History, printed at Edinburgh in 1754: 'It has been observed 
that, upon the revival of letters, very generous and enlarged senti- 
ments of religion prevailed throughout all Italy, and that, during 
the reign of Leo, the Court of Rome itself, in imitation of their 
illustrious prince, had not been wanting in a just sense of freedom. 
But when the enraged and fanatical reformers took arms against 
the Papal hierarchy, and threatened to rend from the Church at 
once all her riches and authority, no wonder she was animated with 
equal zeal and ardour in defence of such ancient and valuable 
possession.' 



232 A LETTER TO THE 

insulting alike to piety and common sense. The 
deposing power of the Pope, his personal infallibility, 
and all those absurd attributes, 1 which degraded the 
Church much more than they elevated the Pontiff, were 
then indignantly rejected from your belief, and con- 
signed to that contemptuous oblivion from which even 
the malicious industry of your enemies has been unable 
to call them up in judgment against you. To Launoi, 
one of the ablest advocates of the Grallican Church, your 
religion owes her release from much of that legendary 
superstition, 2 which sat like a nightmare upon her 
bosom, and filled her dreams with monsters : and in the 
works of the able Chancellor Grerson we find, mingled 
with his vindication of the rights of the Church, 3 some 

It is remarkable, that a similar spirit of political improvement 
had been manifested by some of the governments of Europe, when 
the French Kevolution frightened them back into all their ruinous 
old errors. 

In corroboration of the foregoing passage from Hume, I beg to 
refer the reader to Whitaker's Vindication of Mary Queen of Scots 
(vol. iii. pp. 2, 50), where he will find the same effects imputed to 
the intemperance of the Keformers, and an honourable tribute to 
the Catholics of that period, upon the subject of forgery, ' which 
(says he), I blush for the honour of Protestantism while I write it, 
seems to have been peculiar to the reformed.' Page 2. 

1 It was an assertion of Innocent III. that the Pope is as much 
greater than the Emperor as the sun is greater than the moon ; ' 
which modest pretension became, afterwards, a part of the common 
law, and set a wise glossator upon the following interesting calcu- 
lation : ' Cum terra sit septies major luna, sol autem octies major 
terra, restat ergo ut pontificalis dignitas quadragesies septies sit 
major regali.' 

2 See, among others, his treatise De Commentitio Lazari et 
Maximini et Marthae in Provinciam Appulsit ; in reading which, 
and similar works of this author, we regret to think that it should 
ever have been necessary to exert courage and ingenuity in the 
refutation of such puerile absurdities. 

3 In some of his ideas about the right of resistance to Popes, he 
was thought, indeed, at that time, to have ventured too far ; as in 
the passage, ' Casus multi esse possunt, in quibus aliquis se gerens 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 233 

of those pure principles of political freedom, 1 which his 
country afterwards so grandly, though intemperately 
asserted, and which, however their animation may be 
suspended at present by the strong grasp of military 
power, have too much vitality, I think, to expire 
altogether beneath the pressure : like those tables of 
science which Shem is said to have taken with him 
into the ark, they are preserved, I trust, to enlighten 
mankind, when the present deluge of despotism shall 
have 6 abated from off the earth.' 

While the religion of England was Catholic, the 
same guards against Papal encroachment were adopted 
under her wisest sovereigns ; and it was in the reign of 
Edward III., that patriotic monarch who first spiritedly 
filled up the rude outline of the British Constitution, 
that the statutes of PraBmunire and Provisors were 
enacted, for the utter exclusion of the Pope from all 
matters of ecclesiastical discipline. Can Catholics then 
wonder that Protestants should be unwilling to endanger 
their establishments by the least infusion of an influence 
which Catholics themselves have so invariably pro- 
nounced to be mischievous ? Nay, though Protestants 
should be inclined to try the experiment, would not 
Catholics blush to re-enter the temple of the Constitution 
which their own hands first built, and from which they 
have been so long excluded, with that badge of eccle- 
siastical servitude about their necks, which, in laying 
the foundations of the fane, they declared to be un- 
worthy of its precincts ? Could they bear to resemble 

pro Papa, et pro tali habitus ab Ecclesia, poterit a subdito licitd vel 
occidi, vel incarcerari,' &c. &c. Tom. secund. in Regulis jtforalibus 
tit. De Praeceptis Decalogi. 

1 In the famous passage (Adversus Adulatores, considerat. 7), 
which King James quotes, with such horror, in his Defence of the 
Rights of Kings, against Cardinal Perron. 



234 A LETTER TO THE 

those children of the Jews l who took back into Israel 
the language they had learned in bondage, and thus 
mix the Ashdod, the jargon of slavery, with their own 
old, native dialect of liberty ? The Catholics of Eng- 
land seem to feel upon the subject as they ought ; and, 
by the readiness which they have shown to exchange 
the rescripts and bulls of Rome 2 for the blessings of a 
free Constitution, they prove themselves worthy de- 
scendants of those founders of British liberty who, with 
all their reverence for the spiritual authority of the 
Pope, thought freedom too delicate a treasure to be 
exposed unnecessarily to his influence, and accordingly 
sheltered it round with Provisors and Prsemunire, like 
that fenced-in pillar at Delphi, 3 which not even priests 
might touch. 

But neither by France nor by Catholic England 
was the interference of Rome more effectually excluded 
than by Ireland herself during the times of her native 
monarchy. However far the learned Usher may have 
carried his hypothesis with respect to the religion of 
the early Irish, the testimonies which he cites abun- 
dantly prove that, to as late a period as the twelfth 
century, the Pope had not exercised a legatine authority 
in Ireland, nor taken any share in the election of her 
bishops or archbishops ; and how little inclined your 
ancestors of those days were to abide by a Papal decision, 

1 ' And their children spoke half in the speech of Ashdod, and 
could not speak the Jews' language, but according to the language 
of each people.' Neliemiah xiii. 23, 24. 

2 ' I do not, of course, mean that these instruments should be 
altogether excluded, as there may occur some questions of internal 
discipline upon which a reference to the See of Home would be 
necessary. But even this degree of intercourse should be subjected 
to some such regulations as Sir John Cox Hippisley has proposed 
in his pamphlet. 

3 Erected on the spot which they called the 6^a\bs yaias. 
Pausan. c. 16. See Musgrave Upon the Ion of Euripides. 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 235 

even in matters of canonical regulation, appears by 
their obstinate dissent from the Komish observance of 
Easter a schism in which they were encouraged by 
some of your most celebrated Saints, whose anti- 
canonical boldness is, however, sufficiently justified by 
their canonization. 

When declaimers, therefore, appeal to your passions 
upon the danger of disturbing a hierarchy which is 
6 the only undestroyed monument of your ancient 
grandeur,' you should remember that at the period to 
which alone they can refer in this allusive retrospect to 
former greatness, your hierarchy was quite as inde- 
pendent of Eome as the advocates of your liberties 
would wish to make it now ; l and that this Papal in- 
terference which some persons consider so essential, and 
to which you are the only people in the world subjected 
at present, far from being a relic of grandeur or glory, 
is but the base remnant of that anomalous proscription 
which so long made you aliens in your own land, and 
which drove you to seek in a spiritual alliance abroad 
some shelter from the storm of a temporal tyranny at 
home. 

It was not till the Eeformation had added religious 
schism to the differences already existing between 
these countries that Ireland was effectually thrown 

1 At one period, they seem to have elected their bishops accord- 
ing to the mode which was practised at Alexandria as early as the 
time of Saint Mark the Evangelist a model which, I think, would 
satisfy anyone but Cabbasutius. ' Alexandriae a Marco Evange- 
lista usque ad Heraclium et Dionysium Episcopos, Presbyteri 
semper unum ex se electum in excelsiori gradu collocatum Episco- 
pum nominabant.' Hieronym. Epi-gt. ad Evagr. 

In the tenth century, as Campion informs us, the monarch of 
Ireland was allowed the exercise of a Veto. ' To the Monarch, 
besides his allowance of ground and titles of honours, and other 
privileges in jurisdiction, was granted a negative on the nomina- 
tion of bishops at every vocation.' Book i. c. 15. 



236 A LETTER TO THE 

into the arms of Rome ; and from that period down 
to the accession of his present Majesty the events of 
every succeeding reign have served but to draw the tie 
more closely. Indeed, nothing could be more natural 
than that the members of a persecuted religion should 
turn for support, for counsel and consolation, to the 
visible head of that faith for which they were suffering 
that they should find some relief to their wounded 
pride in the patronage of a prince who had long been 
formidable, and whose throne seemed to stand upon 
the line which separates this world from the next, 
illuminated strongly by the glories of both that, pos- 
sessing no political rights which foreign interference 
could injure, they should unreservedly abandon their 
church to his guidance, and find a charm in this 
voluntary obedience to him which consoled them for 
their extorted submission to others. All these feelings 
were as natural and just as the causes that produced 
them were monstrous and iniquitous. But those causes 
exist no longer : a tyranny, which disgraced alike the 
inflictors and the sufferers, has gradually given way 
before the light of liberality and conviction, and its 
last slow lingering vestige is about, I trust, to vanish 
for ever ; but surely it is worse than absurdity to expect 
that the precautions and prejudices adopted upon both 
sides during that dark season of mutual ill-will should 
now be surrendered by one of the parties, while they 
are cautiously kept in full force by the other, and that 
Protestants should throw away the last fragment of the 
penal sword, while the Papal stiletto is still in the 
hands of Catholics : it is folly to expect, and insult to 
ask it ! The subjection of your church to the Pope 
was the consequence of your political misfortunes ; and, 
even granting that the continuance of this yoke is 
consistent with the freedom which you ask for (a 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 237 

position which you yourselves have, in all times and 
countries, denied), yet, by unnecessarily preserving 
such a memorial of your former alienation, you per- 
petuate the remembrance of times which it is the 
interest of all parties to forget ; you withhold that 
reciprocity of sacrifice which alone makes reconcilement 
satisfactory ; and you take all its grace from the gift of 
liberty by ungenerously declaring that you distrust the 
giver. In short, it shows an ignorance of the common- 
est feelings of human nature to suppose that the present 
possessors of the State would willingly admit you to a 
share upon such very unequal terms, or that as long as 
you cling close to the Court of Rome you can be 
cordially embraced by the British Constitution. 

Again, therefore, I appeal to that love of liberty 
which is native to you as Irishmen, and avowed by you 
as Catholics ; l and I ask whether you can think, 
without shame and indignation, that for a long period 
you have been the only people in Europe (with the 
exception of a few petty States in the neighbourhood of 
the Pope) who have sunk so low in ecclesiastical 
vassalage as to place their whole hierarchy at the 
disposal of the Eoman Court ? Can you patiently 
reflect that the humiliating doctrine of Caietanus,. 
' servam esse ecdesiamj which the divines of France so 
boldly and successfully combated, 2 has been admitted 

1 Among many examples which might be adduced to prove that 
a warm zeal for the Roman Catholic religion is consistent with the 
best feelings and principles of political liberty, we may mention 
the very interesting instance of the Dalecarlians, who, though they 
chiefly assisted Gustavus to shake off the tyranny of the Danes, 
were among the first to oppose his reformation of their ancient 
religion. See Sheridan's Revolution of Sweden, p. no, where we 
may trace a strong similarity to the Irish character through the 
description which he gives of the turbulent, but generous nature of 
these hardy mountaineers. 

2 See particularly Launoi's Letters- 



238 A LETTER TO THE 

and acted upon in Ireland alone, and that the title 
under which Pope Adrian affected to transfer this 
kingdom to Henry II., 1 though treated by your an- 
cestors with the contempt which it deserved, 2 has been 
almost justified by the voluntary submission with which 
you have since surrendered the only rights that were 
left you to his successors ? If you felt, upon these 
reflections, as lovers of liberty ought, you would rejoice 
in the opportunity which now so brightly presents 
itself, of regaining at the same moment your political 
and ecclesiastical freedom ; of proving to your fellow- 
countrymen that the yoke, which you assumed as 
Catholics, was but a kind of counterbalance to the 
fetter which hung upon you as citizens ; and that the 
same emancipating touch which bursts the links of the 
latter will for ever release you from the degradation of 
the former. 

Let me add, too, that as revenge was naturally 
among the motives which sweetened your alliance with 
a prince whom your persecutors feared and detested, it 
becomes you to beware lest those whom you now ask 

1 This title might be sent after the famous deed of gift from 
Constantine to Pope Silvester, which Ariosto tells us is to be found 
in the moon. 

Questo era il dono (se pero dir lice) 
Che Constantino al fawn Silvestro fece. 

I am aware that to certain lay controversialists I shall not appear 
quite orthodox in quoting Ariosto, whom their great annalist, 
Baronius, has styled ' vulgaris poeta ille,' in his indignation against 
the bard, for having borrowed from the Legends his curious story 
of Isabella and the Moor. See La Cerda, upon the 7th book of the 
Aeneid. * Ita scilicet patet secta plagiariorum,' &c. 

2 In the same manner, Paul IV. in the time of Mary, took upon 
him to erect Ireland into a kingdom, with pompous references, for 
his authority, to the saints, &c.; upon which Archbishop Usher 
says, 'Paul need not make all that noise, and trouble the whole 
Court of Heaven with the matter.' 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 239 

to confide in you should suspect that a wilful perse- 
verance in this connexion is actuated by some remains 
of that vindictive spirit under whose embittering in- 
fluence it first was formed. The Greeks had the 
feeling and good taste to exclude from the architecture 
of their temples those figures of female slaves called 
Caryatides, because (as it is well expressed by a writer 
upon the art) they would be ' monuments of vengeance 
in an asylum of mercy ' l how much more importantly 
then are you called upon to imitate this tasteful gen- 
erosity of the Greeks, and to shrink from profaning, 
with the least trace of revengeful feeling, that free 
sanctuary of reconcilement to which you are invited ! 

I shall be told, of course, that, in the instances 
which I have adduced of France 2 and of the early times 
of England 3 and Ireland, the religion of the State was 
Catholic; and that, therefore, the interests of your 
Church might be safely entrusted to the consciences of 
those who governed, without the protective interference 
of the Pope. Before we examine into the soundness of 

1 'Vindictae monumenta in asylo misericordiae.' Aldrich's 
Architecture. 

2 The famous declaration of the liberties of the Gallican Church, 
contained in the four propositions of the bishops, in 1682, which 
the learned Bossuet was the most active in promoting, and which 
(as a Roman Catholic divine of these countries tells us) went so 
far as : to pronounce the sovereign pastor fallible even in his dog- 
matic decisions of faith ' (Reeve's Christian Church'), has been 
lately revived, in its full extent, by that greatest of all statesmen 
and warriors, Buonaparte. 

3 Doctor Bramhall thus states the liberties of the Roman 
Catholic Church of England : When the kings of England owned 
the Pope's spiritual authority, his decrees had no force of laws 
without the confirmation of the king. The Kings of England 
suffered no appeals to Rome out of their kingdoms, nor Roman 
legates to enter their dominions without their licence, and declared 
the Pope's bulls to be otherwise void.' Just Vindication of the 
Church of England, vol. i. 



240 A LETTER TO THE 

this objection, I must urge somewhat farther a point to 
which I have already adverted, and entreat of you to 
consider whether a Protestant government is not abun- 
dantly warranted in its suspicion of Papal influence 1 by 
the jealous apprehension with which Eoman Catholic 
sovereigns have at all times endeavoured to control and 
resist its inroads ; and whether you are not guilty of 
something worse than charlatanry in recommending to 
others, as harmless and even salutary, what you have 
constantly rejected as unnerving and poisonous your- 
selves. If this influence be baneful under monarchs of 
your own religion, it must work with tenfold virulence 
where the government is of an opposite faith; and 
where, to the restless spirit of intrigue, the strong as- 
cendency over conscience, and the alienating claims of 
a spiritual allegiance 2 which render it so formidable in 
the former case, are added the diversity of interests, 
the warmth of anti-heretical zeal, and the ambition of 
proselytism, which must invariably actuate it in the 
latter. 

1 I have purposely refrained from urging the very obvious 
argument with which the present state of the Continent has sup- 
plied my predecessors on this side of the question ; partly because 
the prelates have given up this point themselves, and admitted the 
necessity, in the existing state of Europe, of a temporary interrup- 
tion of their dependence upon the Holy See ; and chiefly because 
my arguments are meant to go the much greater length of proving 
that, in all possible times and circumstances, this subjection to 
Rome is degrading and mischievous. 

2 The dangers of such an allegiance are thus forcibly enumera - 
ted by a writer who, however irreverently blind to the beauties of 
religion, had the quickest of all eyes in detecting and smiling at 
its abuses : La difficulte de saroir a quel point on doit obeir a 
ce souverain etranger, la facilite de se laisser seduire, le plaisir de 
secouerun joug naturel pour en prendre un qu'on se donne soi- 
meme, 1'esprit de trouble, le malheur des temps, n'ont que trop 
souvent port6 des ordres entiers de Religieux a servir Rome contre 
leur patrie.' Siecle de Louis XIV. 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 241 

With respect to the distinction between spiritual 
and temporal power, by which you endeavour to re- 
concile your submission to the Pope with the free 
discharge of your duties as subjects and citizens, it is 
a security, which the history of all the religions of the 
world too fully justifies a legislature in refusing to trust 
to implicitly. It would be happy, indeed, for man- 
kind, if this line between the spiritual and the temporal 
had always been definitively and inviolably drawn ; l 
for the experience both of past and present times 
proves, that the mixture of religion with this world's 
politics is as dangerous as electrical experiments upon 
lightning though the flame comes from heaven, it 
can do much mischief upon earth. Entangled, however, 
as the interests of Churches and States have become, 
from the frailty, ambition, and worldliness of man- 
kind, it is hardly possible to detach them fairly or 
satisfactorily ; and, therefore, refine away, as you will, 
the spiritual authority of the Pope, there will still 
remain combined with it, in its purest state, many 
gross particles of temporal power, which it is the duty 
of a wise and free government to counteract by every 
effort consistent with the consciences of its subjects. 

But, to return to the objection of those who main- 
tain that, though the supremacy of the Pope may 
be reduced to a mere titular existence, where the 
monarch is of the Roman Catholic faith, and, therefore, 

1 The taint which religion always takes from the least contact 
of temporal power, is observable even in that part of the progress 
of Mahometanism which we trace through the gradual compilation 
of the Koran. In the second chapter of this book it is said that 
* all those who believe in God and the last day, shall have their 
reward with the Lord ; ' but as the sect became dominant, it also 
grew intolerant and monopolising, and this liberal tenet is revoked 
in succeeding parts of the Koran, chap. Ixiv., c. 

K 



242 A LETTER TO THE 

equally interested with his subjects in the preservation 
of its strength and purity ; yet this interposing shield 
of papal protection becomes necessary, where the 
government wields an opposite creed, recommended 
and enforced by every art of seduction and power. In 
the first place, experience is decidedly against this 
assumption ; and we need but refer to the examples of 
Prussia and Kussia, where your Church has, with safety, 
entrusted the appointment of her bishops to a Lutheran 
prince, and a schismatic autocrat, 1 to prove that even 
in arbitrary states, 2 where the rights of the subject lie 
more within the reach of the sovereign than they can 
ever be placed by the British constitution, your religion 
may defy alike the pressure of power and of opinion, 

1 The pontifical oath was altered, by the Empress of Eussia's 
desire, in the year 1783,' when Mohilhow was erected into an arch- 
bishopric, and a prelate, of Catherine's nomination, received the 
pall from Pius VI. In this new form of oath (which, since 1791, 
has been wisely adopted by the bishops and archbishops of Ireland), 
the words 'Hereticos persequar et impugnabo,' which excited such 
alarm in Doctor Duigenan and others, are omitted. See the ponti- 
fical rescript in Dr. Troy's Pastoral Address, 1793. Tne reader will 
find, in the 4th chapter of Historical and Philosophical Memoirs of 
Pius VI., an unfair, perhaps, but certainly amusing account of the 
disputes between Catherine and His Holiness, relative to this arch- 
bishopric of Mohilhow. The circumstances which led to the 
alteration of the ancient oath are thus detailed : ' Archetti, the 
Pope's nuncio, being questioned relative to the kind of oath which 
the prelate would be expected to take, answered that he must 
swear not to tolerate heretics and schismatics. He was bluntly 
told that his instructions betrayed a want of sense and reflection, 
and that it was ridiculous to impose upon a subject the obligation 
of persecuting those who lived under the same sovereign as him- 
self, &c. &c., pp. 32, 33. 

2 ' The Calvinistic states of the United Provinces regulated 
their conduct, with respect to their subjects of the Koman commu- 
nion, on similar principles. The nomination even of a cur6 (or 
parish priest) was certified by the arch-priest to the provincial 
magistrate, and, if objected to, another was appointed.' Sir John 
Cox Hippisley On tlie Catholic Question. 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 243 

and flow on, like Arethusa, untinged by the mass of 
heterodoxy around it. 1 

It requires, indeed, but little range of history to 
teach us, that, however a difference of religion may 
have exasperated the feuds of mankind, it has seldom 
been of itself the sole originating motive of hostility. 
The power connected with creeds is always much more 
obnoxious than their errors, and Faith may wear her 
mantle of any hue she likes as long as she is not sus- 
pected of hiding a sceptre under it. So little, in gene- 
ral, have states and sovereigns been guided in their 
movements by mere spiritual considerations, that we 
find them, as worldly policy dictates, combining in such 
motley alliances of creeds, as seem almost to realise 
the rambling dreams of scepticism. We see the Cross 
united with the Crescent against Christians ; we find 
Catholics assisting Protestants to cast off a Catholic 
yoke, 2 and, still more extraordinary, perhaps, within a 
very few years, we have seen papal badges about the 
necks of British dragoons, 3 as a reward for having de- 
fended the Pope, in his own capital, against Papists. 
Indeed, through all the difficulties with which the Court 
of Eome had to struggle, during the warning events 

1 Belle Aretkuse, ainsi ton onde foHunee 
Roule au seinfurieux d'AmpMtrite etonnee, 
Un critftal tovjours pur, et des flots toujours clairs, 
Que jamais ne corrompt 1'amei'tume des mers. 

LA HENRIADE. 

2 Thus Innocent XI. assisted the great champion of Protestant- 
ism, William, with the money of the Church against the papist 
prince, his father-in-law. Indeed, so little were the interests of 
the Church considered, in this instance, that when James sent the 
Earl of Castlemaine, Ambassador Extraordinary to Home, to make 
submission of the Crown of England to the Pope, the Court of Eome 
received him with repulsive coldness, and refused him a cardinal's 
hat, which the king solicited for Father Petre. 

8 The 1 2th, or Prince of Wales's Light Dragoons. 
B 2 



244 ^ LETTER TO THE 

which preceded the French revolution, her chief con- 
solations and aids were administered by heretics and 
schismatics ; and while the Emperor Joseph, the Grand 
Duke of Tuscany, and the King of Naples, were weaken- 
ing and degrading the Pontiff by every species of en- 
croachment and insult ; while France, the eldest child 
of the Church, was already preparing ' images of revolt 
and flying off,' the King of Sweden was on a visit of 
friendship at Borne, the great Frederick maintained a 
cordial intercourse with the Holy See, and protected 
its best supporters, the Jesuits, in his dominions ; while 
Catherine, beside the interest which she evinced towards 
her Roman Catholic subjects in White Russia, proposed, 
and, I doubt not, with much sincerity, to establish a 
Concordat between the Greek and Latin churches. 1 

Having satisfied ourselves, therefore, that a mere 
difference in creeds is, of itself, insufficient to provoke 
hostility, without an adequate mixture of political con- 
siderations, let us consider whether it would be the 
interest of the British G-overnment, after admitting you 
to a full participation of the constitution, to follow up 
the boon by attacking or undermining your religion, 



1 There is nothing which excites more regret than the failure 
of every effort like this, towards reconciling the great schisms of 
the Christian world. The forbearance of Melanchthon and others, 
at the Keformation, in admitting several points as adiaplwra, 
ought to have led to a more cordial adjustment of differences, 
instead of adding to the many absurd quarrels of mankind the pre- 
posterous instance of a "helium adiaphoristicum. The speculations 
of the Eirenists, too, for reconciling the Protestant and Catholic 
churches, were all put an end to by the bull Unigenitus. The plan 
which Fabricius proposed for this desirable object, may be found in 
Heidegger's Life of that able professor, at the end of his Works. 
It is impossible, however, to read the sarcasms against popery, in 
the Ihidides Catholicus of Fabricius (published under the assumed 
name of Ferrarius), without suspecting that he was but indif- 
ferently qualified for the dispassionate duties of an arbitrator 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 245 

and thus cancelling the only security which they can 
have for the morals of the people with whom they have 
shared so valuable a deposit. The very statement of 
such a supposition is, I think, a sufficient exposure of 
its absurdity. 4 Eeligion (says Montesquieu), though 
false, is the only guarantee we can have for the probity 
of men ; ' and can you seriously think that the power 
which you are asked to vest in the Crown, will be pre- 
meditatedly employed towards the extinction of this 
guarantee ? or that the religion, which alone has made 
you trustworthy, will be conspired against as soon as 
the trust has been confided to you ? 

That there are some persons, even in these reasoning 
times, who are ignorant and weak enough to dread and 
hate your Church, who would, for ever, exclude you 
from all political rights, and who, as long as your in- 
terests are separate from their own, would feel a plea- 
sure in loosening your moorings of rectitude, and cast- 
ing you adrift into those vices and irregularities which 
might give them some pretext for wronging and tor- 
menting you that there are a few such malicious 
bigots, I acknowledge with shame and astonishment c 
but to suppose that even those very persons, in the 
event of your becoming incorporated with them in the 
state and embarked in a complete identity of interests, 
should be so blind to their own safety as to weaken the 
restraints of that religion, to which alone they have to 
trust for the integrity and good faith of their co-partners, 
or so wanton as to vitiate this fountain of your morals 
at the risk of tainting the whole atmosphere of the con- 
stitution to suppose such a perversion of the com- 
monest dictates of policy, is to imagine a mixture of 
profligacy and bigotry, which I should hesitate in attri- 
buting even to Mr. Perceval. 

The great King of Prussia, whose hatred to all 



246 A LETTER TO THE 

possible creeds l will not be questioned by the believers 
in Barruel and Kobinson, far from indulging this 
malignity at the expense of his subjects and himself, 
thus speaks in justifying the cordial protection which 
he afforded to the Jesuits in Polish Prussia and Silesia : 
4 1 have a million and a half of Catholics among my 
subjects, and it is of consequence to me that they 
should be brought up strictly and uniformly in the 
religion of their forefathers.' But it is superfluous to 
refer to such philosophical authority, for a policy 
obvious to the least reasoning capacities ; the very 
instinct of self-preservation would suggest it to the 
most brainless politician, and I doubt whether even 
my Lord Castlereagh would not lose all the pleasure 
which he takes in the practice of corruption, if he 
had the slightest suspicion that he endangered himself 
by it. 

When alarmists, therefore, try to persuade you that 
this concession will be fatal to your faith ; that it is 
but a barter of spiritual treasures for a few temporal 
advantages, and that, as the eagle took the tortoise 
into the sky in order to break it, so your sect is to be 
elevated only for the purpose of destroying it tell 
them that you have too high a value for liberty, and 
too strong a reliance upon the stability of your Church 
to be scared from the proffered enjoyment of the one, 
by vague or visionary alarms about the other ; that 
you are inspired with a manly and well-grounded con- 
fidence, that the character which you have earned, 
while aliens from the state, will insure a respect for 
your consciences when allied with it ; and that the 
religion which has made you worthy of the constitu- 

1 A truly Protestant prince, according to Bayle's definition of 
the term : Je suis Protestant (says this sceptic), car je protest 
centre toutes les religions.' 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 247 

tion, will be cherished and supported as the best means 
of keeping you so. Tell them, that even should these 
liberal views be fallacious, you can yet rely for the 
safety of your faith upon those ordinary principles of 
self-interest, which prevent the merchant, who trusts 
half his stock to another, from making a knave of his 
partner, or teaching him to betray and plunder him. 
Tell them, in fine, as your best and ultimate security, 
that you depend upon the strength of the religion itself, 
which has for ages taken root in the hearts of Irish- 
men, which, like our beautiful arbutus, is native to the 
soil, and having lived so green through the long winter 
of persecution, will neither be checked in its growth, 
nor weakened in its stem, by those blossoms which the 
warm sun of freedom will bring out on it ! 

Among the lesser and more lightly urged objections 
to the Veto, there is one which it is really refreshing to 
meet, after the anile prejudices and terrors which I 
have been combating ; because it shows some of that 
wakeful jealousy of power which is so becoming in 
suitors for the fair hand of Liberty, and which your 
other arguments against the measure would by no 
means encourage us in attributing to you. c The con- 
cession of the negative,' we are told, ' would increase 
the power of the Crown, and that therefore it is the 
interest of the whole country that it should not be 
granted.' It does not seem, however, to have been 
taken into consideration by the proposers of this 
objection, that the complete enfranchisement of so 
large a portion of the empire would so considerably 
widen the basis of the legislature, as to form more 
than a counterbalance to this additional weight of the 
executive ; and that if the constitution were now in its 
perfect equilibrium (which ' ne aniculse quidem exist i- 



248 A LETTER TO THE 

mant ' i ), such an accession of force to one part of 
the system would require, perhaps, some proportional 
control to be vested in the other. But it is not the 
power, which comes boldly in the shape of prerogative, 
that the people of these countries have chiefly to dread 
at present, and the exercise of a Veto would be so 
personally the act of the king, so individually exposed, 
and of such undivided responsibility, that few monarchs 
would risk an unpopular or arbitrary use of it. 

I may be told, indeed, that the constitutional 
negative of the Crown has been got rid of by the 
insidious mediation of influence, and that the same 
pioneer may smooth the way to the appointment of 
your hierarchy, by procuring the recommendation of 
such persons only as are likely to coincide with the 
politics of the Court, 2 and thus preventing the un- 
gracious ultimatum of a negative. Against this kind 
of danger under the present system, I must candidly 
own that I see but little security. Until a thorough 
reform shall have purified the constitution from that 
all-pervading corruption which threatens to change its 
very nature, nothing that comes within its sphere can 
hope to escape the contagion. That jealousy, perhaps, 
with which you must always regard the too close 
approaches of your clergy to the Court, may, for some 
time, avert their political seduction ; but I dare not 
answer for the best or wisest of them, if too long ex- 
posed to those bewildering temptations, so meretri- 

1 Cicero, De Divinat. lib. 2, 15. 

2 This apprehension of a political abuse of the royal inter- 
ference was felt by the framers of the I2th canon of the 8th 
council of Constantinople in the year 869, which condemns such 
elections of bishops as have been procured * per versutiam et 
tyrannidem principum.' See an able treatise, De lAbertat. Eccles. 
Galilean., by M. C. S. lib. iii. c. 7, p. 123, where a misconception of 
Dominus de Marca upon this subject is corrected. 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 249 

ciously and shamelessly employed by the Government. 
It is impossible, however, that this state of things can 
last ; the people of England demand a reform, and 
what they steadily demand cannot long be refused to 
them. Think, then, what incentives there are, at this 
moment, for a generous neglect of all minor obstacles, 
in your grand pursuit of that rank in the state which 
alone can empower you to serve the constitution; which 
alone can enable you to appear among the regenerators 
of that system, which statesmen of your own faith first 
gloriously founded, and to repay those friends who are 
now struggling for your liberty, by nobly assisting them 
to perfect their own. The very infusion of such a new 
untainted spirit cannot fail to produce reanimation and 
vigour ; and your courage will rival the gallantry of 
that youth who courted his mistress at the moment 
when she was dying of the plague, and ' clasping the 
bright infection in his arms,' 1 restored her to health 
and beauty by his caresses. 

I had intended to have adverted, somewhat more 
particularly, to the manner in which many of your 
writers have treated this subject ; but, having proved 
(to my own conviction, at least), that their arguments 
and alarms are equally groundless, it is unnecessary 
to call upon their manes any further, or disturb that 
oblivion into which I must very soon follow them. 

To your conduct between this and the discussion of 
the question in Parliament, your friends all look with 
considerable anxiety. Having pleaded your cause with 
unexampled perseverance, and succeeded in clearing 
away those gross calumnies, 2 which had so long inter- 

1 Somewhere in Darwin, who took this interesting story (as I 
believe he acknowledges) from a very curious poem by Vincentius 
Fabricius, which may be found in the Miscellanea Guriosa, an. 2. 

2 The reader will find some of the most ridiculous of these 



250 A LETTER TO THE 

cepted the genuine light of your character, they saw 
with pleasure the moment approaching when your 
merits and rights were to be recognised, and their toils 
and sacrifices repaid. They observed that even the 
most timid and scrupulous, looking back to the long 
and dreary quarantine which you had so patiently 
performed off the harbour of the constitution, were 
beginning to lay aside their fears and prejudices, and 
preparing to admit you with confidence and cordiality. 
To see, suddenly, a blight thrown over such prospects 
was painful enough from any quarter ; but to see that 
blight proceed from yourselves, was of all disappoint- 
ments the most unexpected and mortifying. With a 
precipitancy which might have afforded some apology 
for your error, if a perseverance in folly did not rob 
you even of that excuse, you disavowed every favour- 
able disposition attributed to you, and by falsifying 
your best friends, almost justified your worst adversaries. 
I have already, however, sufficiently dwelt upon the 
rash inconsistency of this conduct, and shall now only 
implore that, while there is yet time, you may regain 
the ground which you have lost, and win back the con- 
fidence which you have forfeited. The Protestants 
fear to entrust their constitution to you as long as you 
remain under the influence of the Pope; and your 
reason for continuing under the influence of the Pope 
is that you fear to entrust your Church to the Protes- 
tants. Now, I have shown, I trust, in the preceding 

accusations in The Character of a Papist's Belief, by the Archbishop 
of York in 1 762, written for a Lady to preserve her from the 
dangers of Popery.' Among other articles of the creed, which he 
imputes to them, is the following : ' That Christ is the Saviour of 
men only, but of no women ; for that women are saved by St. Clare 
and Mother Jane.' Surely, surely, such old women as the Arch- 
bishop (and I could point out many a one of the sisterhood at 
present) are scarcely worthy of more respectable mediators. 



ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 251 

pages, that their alarm is natural, just, and well founded; 
while yours is unmeaning, groundless, and ungenerous. 
It cannot, therefore, be doubted by which of you the 
point should be conceded. The bigots of both sects 
are equally detestable; but if I were compelled to 
choose between them, I should certainly prefer those 
who have the Constitution on their side. 

THOMAS MOORE. 
DUBLIN, April 21, 1810. 



M. P. 

OR 

THE BLUE-STOCKING 



IN THREE ACTS 



The lines distinguished by inverted commas were omitted in the 
representation. 

[The eight songs marked with a star were reprinted by the 
Author in the ninth volume of his Poetical Works, at the pages 
indicated,] 



PBEFACE 

I gave this piece to the theatre, I had not the least 
intention of publishing it ; because, however I may have 
hoped that it would be tolerated upon the stage, among 
those light summer productions which are laughed at for a 
season and forgotten, I was conscious how ill such fugitive 
trifles can bear to be embodied into a literary form by pub- 
lication. Among the motives which have influenced me to 
alter this purpose, the strongest, perhaps, is the pleasure 
I have felt in presenting the copyright of the dialogue to 
Mr. Power, as some little acknowledgment of the liberality 
which he has shown in the purchase of the music. The 
opera, altogether, has had a much better fate than I ex- 
pected ; and it would, perhaps, have been less successful in 
amusing the audience, if I had songe serieusement a lesfaire 
rire. But, that the humble opinion which I express of its 
merits has not been adopted in complaisance to any of my 
critics, will appear by the following extract from a letter 
which I addressed to the licenser, for the purpose of pre- 
vailing upon him to restore certain passages, which he had 
thought proper to expunge as politically objectionable : * You 
will perceive, sir, by the true estimate which I make of my 
own nonsense, that, if your censorship were directed against 
bad jokes, &c., I should be much more ready to agree with 
you than I am at present. Indeed, in that case, the una litura 
would be sufficient.' I cannot advert to my correspondence 
with this gentleman without thanking him for the politeness 



2 S 6 

and forbearance with which he attended to my remon- 
strances ; though I suspect he will not quite coincide with 
those journalists who have had the sagacity to discover 
symptoms of political servility l in the dialogue. 

Among the many wants which are experienced in these- 
times, the want of a sufficient number of critics will not, I 
think, be complained of by the most querulous. Indeed, 
the state of an author now resembles very much that of 
the poor Laplander in winter, who has hardly time to light 
his little candle in the darkness, before myriads of insects 
swarm round to extinguish it. In the present instance, 
however, I have no reason to be angry with my censurers ; 
for, upon weighing their strictures on this dramatic baga- 
telle against the praises with which they have honoured 
my writings in general, I find the balance so flatteringly in 
my favour, that gratitude is the only sentiment which even 
the severest 2 have awakened in me. 

To Mr. Arnold, the proprietor of the English Opera, I 
am indebted for many kindnesses and attentions ; and 
though we have differed so materially in our opinions of 
this piece, those who know the side which he has taken in 
the dispute, will easily believe that it has not very much 
embittered my feelings towards him. 

The music, which I have ventured to compose for the 
opera, owes whatever little dramatic effect it may possess 
to the skilful suggestions and arrangements of Mr. Horn ; 
and I only fear that the delicacy with which he has re- 

1 This extraordinary charge was, I believe, founded upon the 
passage which alludes to the Kegent ; and if it be indeed servility 
to look up with hope to the Prince, as the harbinger of better days 
to my wronged and insulted country, and to expect that the friend 
of a Fox and a Moira will also be the friend of liberty and of Ireland 
if this be servility, in common with the great majority of my 
countrymen, I am proud to say I plead guilty to the charge. 

2 See the very elaborate criticisms in Tlie Times of Tuesday, 
September 10, and in The Examiner of Sunday, September 15. 



257 

framed from altering the melodies, or even the harmonies 
which I attempted, may have led him into sanctioning 
many ungraceful errors in both, which his better taste and 
judgment would have rejected. 

To the performers I am grateful for more than mere 
professional exertions ; there was a kind zeal amongst them, 
a cordial anxiety for my success, which, I am proud to hear, 
has seldom been equalled. 

THOMAS MOOKE. 

BURY STREET, ST. JAMES'S: 
October 9, 1811. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



SIR CHARLES CANVAS. 
CAPTAIN CANVAS. 
HENRY DE ROSIER. 
MR. HARTINGTON. 
LEATHERHEAD. 
DAVY. 



LA FOSSE. 
LADY BAB BLUE. 
MADAME DE ROSIER. 
Miss SELWYN. 
Miss HARTINGTON. 
SUSAN. 



Peasants, 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. The Beach Boats coming to land. 

BOAT-GLEE.* 

THE song, that lightens the languid way, 

When brows are glowing, 

And faint with rowing, 
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, 
To whose sound thro' life we stray. 
The beams that flash on the oar awhile, 

As we row along thro' waves so clear, 
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile 

That shines o'er Sorrow's tear. 

Nothing is lost on him, who sees 

With an eye that Feeling gave ; 
For him there's a story in every breeze, 

And a picture in every wave. 
Then sing, to lighten the languid way ; 

When brows are glowing, 

And faint with rowing : 
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, 
To whose sound thro' life we stray. 

ISir CHARLES CANVAS, Lady BAB BLUE, Miss HAK- 
TINGTON, Miss SELWYN, and DAVY, land from the 
boat. 

Lady B. What a charming clear morning ! I pro- 
test we might almost see the coast of France. Run, 
Davy, and fetch my telescope. 

* This Boat-Glee is reprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 390. 
s 2 



260 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

Davy. I wool, my lady. [Exit DAVY to boat.~\ 

Sir Charles. Ay, do, Davy, the French coast is a 
favourite view of mine. 

Miss Selwyn. I thought, Sir Charles, your views 
lay nearer home. 

Sir Charles. Hem, a hit at me for staying at home 
while my brother is abroad fighting the enemy (aside). 
Why, really, madam, if all the brains of the country 
were to be exported through the Admiralty and the 
War-office, you would have none left for home consump- 
tion. No, no, a few of us must stick to old England, 
or her politics and fashions would be entirely neglected, 
and the devil would get amongst the Ministers and the 
tailors. 

Miss Hartington. You suppose then, Sir Charles, 
that our politics and our fashions may be safely en- 
trusted to the same hands. 

Sir C. Certainly, madam ; there is nothing like us 
for leading either the ton or the opposition, for turning 
out either an equipage or an administration; and 
equally knowing on the turf and the hustings, if a 
favourite horse breaks down, or a new patriot bolts ; we 
can start you fresh ones at the shortest notice. 

Miss S. Your brother, however, seems to think, 
Sir Charles, that on the quarter-deck of a British man- 
of-war he may make himself at least as useful to his 
country as if he passed all his time between a barouche- 
box and the Treasury bench. 

Sir C. That plaguy brother of mine is never out of 
her head (aside). Why, as to my brother, Miss Selwyn, 
my brother, in short, madam, if my brother had not 
been in such a hurry to come into the world, but had 
waited decently, like me, till his mother was married, 
he would not only have saved the family some blushes, 
but would have possessed, of course, the title, the 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 261 

fortune, and all those cogent little reasons which I now 
have for keeping this head of mine out of gun-shot, and 
employing it in the home department at your service. 

Miss S. His want of feeling upon this misfortune 
of his family is quite odious. We must not stay to 
listen to him (to Miss HARTINGTON). Believe me, Sir 
Charles, you mistake the mode of recommending your- 
self, if you think to amuse by this display of levity 
upon a subject in which a parent's honour and a brother's 
interests are so very deeply and delicately concerned. 
The rude hand of the world will be ready enough to 
lift the veil, without requiring your aid in the exposure. 
[Exeunt Miss HART, and Miss SELWYN. 

Sir C. Ay, this now comes of talking facetiously 
upon grave subjects. 'Tis the way in the House, though, 
always ; Adam Smith and Joe Miller well mixed, that's 
your parliamentary style of eloquence. But what's our 
old Polyhymnia about here ? [turning to Lady BAB, 
who during this time has got the telescope and is 
looking towards the sea.~] 

Lady B. Well, positivelyj this is a most miraculous 
telescope. There there he is again. 

Sir C. May I ask what your ladyship has found out ? 

Lady B. Something black and red, Sir Charles, 
that is moving on the coast opposite, which my fond 
fancy persuades me may be one of the great French 
chemists. There, there he goes again, the dear man ! 
the black must be his face, and the red his night-cap. 
What wonderful discoveries he may be making at this 
moment ! 

Sir 0. Not more wonderful than you are making 
yourself, I think, old lady ! 

Lady B. Come here, Davy, and try what you can 
observe. Your eyes have not suffered in the cause of 
science, like mine. 



262 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

Davy. Why, noa, not much ; and ecod ! sometimes 
of an evening I can see twice as much as other folk. 
Like your Highland witches, I have a sight to spare. 

Sir C. (aside). I never yet knew a learned lady that 
did not delight in having a booby to show off upon. 
Whether it be in the shape of servant, lover, or husband,, 
these curious copies of Sappho generally have a calf- 
skin at their backs. 

Davy (looking through the glass). What colour 
did you say a chemist was, my lady ? 

Lady B. (smiling). Why, rather of the dingy 
than otherwise ; the dark, sober tinge of the laboratory.. 
As my friend Dr. 0' Jargon often says to me ' Your 
ignorant people, madam, have an objection to dirt, but 
/ know what it is composed of, and am perfectly recon- 
ciled to it.' And so he is, good man ! he bears it like 
a philosopher. 

Davy. By gum ! I see it now, sailing away to wind- 
ward like smoke. 

Lady B. Sailing ! you blockhead ! 

Davy. Ees, and if you had not tould me 'twas a 
chemist, I could have sworn 'twas a great collier from 
Newcastle. 

Lady B. Ha ! plenty of the carbonic, however ! 
But, pray, Sir Charles, what has become of my niece 
and Miss Hartington ? 

Sir C. Just paired off, madam, as we say at St. 
Stephen's, and left me in silent admiration of the ease 
with which your ladyship's vision can travel to the 
coast of France, while the eyes of this unlettered rustic 
can reach no farther than the middle of the Channel. 

Davy. Well, come, to be half seas over is quite 
enough for any moderate man. 

Lady B. Hold your familiar tongue, and follow 
me. Sir Charles, shall we try and find the young 
ladies ? 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 263 

Sir C. With all my heart ; though, I assure your 
ladyship the humour in which Miss Selwyn adjourned 
the debate made me rather fear that I was put off till 
this day six months. 

Lady B. There are some of my sex, Sir Charles, 
like certain chemical substances, it is impossible to 
melt them, because they fly off in vapour during the 
process. My niece, I confess, is of this fly-away nature ; 
while /, alas ! am but too fusible. Come, Davy, bring 
the telescope safely after me. 

[Exeunt SIR C. and LADY B. 

Davy. I wool, my lady (looking after her). What 
a comical thing your laming is ! Now, here am I, as 
a body may say, in the very thick on't. Nothing but 
knowledge, genus, and what not, from morning till 
night, and yet, dang it, somehow, none of it sticks to 
me. It wouldn't be so in other concarns. Now in a 
public house, for instance, I think I could hardly be 
among the liquors all day without some of them finding 
their way into my mouth. But here's this laming 
tho' I be made a kind of accomplice in it by my lady, 
I am as innocent of it all as the parson of our parish. 

SONG-. DAVY. 

Says Sammy, the tailor, to me, 

As he sat with his spindles crossways 
'Tis bekase I'm a poet, you see, 

1 That I kiver my head with green baize ! ' 
So says I, ' For a sample I begs,' 

And I'm shot if he didn't produce, sir, 
Some crossticks he wrote on his legs, 
And a pastern ode to his goose, sir. 
Oh this writing and reading ! 

'Tis all a fine conjuration, 
Made for folks of high breeding, 

To bother themselves and the nation ! 



264 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

There's Dick, who sold wine in the lane-, 

And old Dickey himself did not tope ill ; 
But politics turned his brain. 

And a place he call'd Constantinople. 
He never could sit down to dine, 

But he thought of poor Turkey, he said, sir ; 
And swore, while he tippled his wine, 

That the Porte was ne'er out of his head, sir. 
Oh this writing and reading ! &c. 

The grocer, Will Fig, who so fast 

Thro' his ciphers and figures could run ye, 
By gum ! he has nothing, at last, 

But the ciphers to show for his money. 
The barber, a scollard, well known 

At the sign of the wig hanging from a tree, 
Makes every head like his own, 

For he cuts them all up into geometry ! 
Oh this writing and reading ! &c. 



SCENE II. An Apartment at Mr. HAETINGTON'S. 

Enter Miss SELWTN and Miss HARTINGTON. 

Miss Hart. My dear Miss Selwyn, I am so happy 
for once to have you quietly in my father's house. We 
never should have got so intimate in London. 

Miss Selwyn. In London ! oh never. What with 
being at borne to nobody in the morning, and being at 
home to everybody in the evening, there is no such 
thing as intimacy amongst us. We are like those 
ladies ^of Bagdad in the ' Arabian Nights,' who enter- 
tained strangers in their illuminated apartments, upon 
condition that they would not ask to know anything 
further about them. 

Miss Hart. But I had almost forgot Sir Charles 
Canvas. 



Jf.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 265 

Miss S. Nothing so likely to slip out of one's 
memory, my dear. 

Miss Hart. I am quite happy to hear you say so, 
as I rather feared Sir Charles was a lover of yours. 

Miss S. And so he unfortunately is. He loves me 
with a sort of electioneering regard for the influence 
which my fortune would give him among the free- 
holders. In short, he canvasses my heart and the 
county together, and for every vow expects a vote. 

Miss Hart. I had always supposed till now that 
Captain Canvas was the elder of the two. 

Miss S. You were right, my dear : he is older by 
a, year than Sir Charles. But their father, the late 
baronet, having married his lady privately in France, 
Captain Canvas was born before their marriage was 
avowed, and before the second solemnisation of it, 
which took place publicly in England. Though no 
one doubts the validity of the first union, yet the diffi- 
culty, indeed the impossibility of proving it from the 
total want of witness or document, has been taken 
advantage of by Sir Charles to usurp the title and 
fortune, while his brave and admirable brother is care- 
lessly wandering over the ocean, with no fortune but 
his sword, no title but his glory ! 

Miss Hart. I am not at all surprised at the warmth 
with which you speak of Captain Canvas. I knew him 
once very well (sighs). 

Miss S. Very well, did you say, Miss Hartington ? 

Miss Hart. Oh no not indeed scarcely at all. 
I meant merely that I had seen him. He was the 
friend of poor De Eosier (aside). 

Miss S. That sigh that confusion yes yes I 
see it plain she loves him too (aside). 

[Mr. HARTINGTON'S voice heard without. 

Miss Hart. My father's voice, what a lucky relief ! 



266 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

I am so happy, my dear Miss Selwyn, in the oppor- 
tunity of introducing you to my father. You must 
not be surprised at the oddity of his appearance ; he is 
just now setting out upon one of those benevolent 
rambles, for which he dresses himself like the meanest 
of mankind ; being convinced that in this homely garb 
he finds an easier access to the house of misfortune,, 
and that proud misery unburdens her heart more freely 
for him who seems to share in her wants, than for him 
who ostentatiously comes to relieve them. 

Enter Mr. HARTINGTON, meanly dressed. 

Miss Hart. Dear father, my friend, Miss Selwyn. 

Mr. Hart. I fear, Miss Selwyn, I shall alarm you 
by these tatters. Fine ladies, like crows, are apt to be 
frightened away by rags. 

Miss S. When we know, sir, the purpose for which 
this disguise is assumed, it looks brighter in our eyes- 
than the gayest habiliments of fashion ; for when 
charity 

Mr. Hart. Nay, nay, child, no flattery. You have 
learned these fine speeches from your aunt, Lady Bab,, 
who is, if I mistake not, what the world calls a Blue- 
Stocking. 

Miss S. In truth, sir, I rather fear my aunt has 
incurred that title. 

Mr. Hart. Yes, yes ; I knew her father ; he was a 
man of erudition himself, and, having no son to inherit 
his learning, was resolved to lay out every syllable of it 
upon this daughter, and accordingly stuffed her head 
with all that was legible and illegible, without once 
considering that the female intellect may possibly be 
too weak for such an experiment, and that, if guns were 
made of glass, we should be but idly employed in 
charging them. 



M.F., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 267 

Miss S. And would you, then, shut us out entirely 
from the light of learning ? 

Mr. Hart. No, no; learn as much as you please, 
but learn also to conceal it. I could even bear a little 
peep at the blue-stockings, but save me from the woman 
who shows them up to her knees ! 

Miss Hart. Nay, father, you speak severely. 

Mr. Hart. Perhaps I do, child, and lose my time 
in the bargain. But here, make Miss Selwyn welcome, 
while I go to my bureau to fill this little ammunition- 
pouch (shewing a small leather purse) for my day'& 
sport among the cottages. Oh money ! money ! let 
bullionists and paper-mongers say what they will, the 
true art of raising the value of a guinea is to share it 
with those who are undeservedly in want of it ! \_Exit. 

Miss S. (looking after him). Excellent man ! 

Miss Hart. But were you not a little shocked by 
the misery of his appearance ? 

Miss S. Oh I not at all. He seems to me like one- 
of those dark clouds that lay between us and the moon 
last night gloomy and forbidding on its outward 
surface, but lined with the silver light of heaven 
within ! 

DUET. Miss SELWYN and Miss HARTINGTON. 

'Tis s\veet to behold, when the billows are sleeping, 
Some gay-colour'd bark moving gracefully by ; 

No damp on her deck but the even-tide's weeping, 
No breath in her sails but the summer-wind's sigh. 

Yet who -would not turn, with a fonder emotion, 
To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn, 

Which often hath wafted, o'er hills of the ocean, 
The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn ? 



268 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

Oh ! grant that of those, who, in life's sunny slumber, 
Around us, like summer-barks, idly have play'd, 

When storms are abroad, we may find, in the number, 
One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid ! 

[Exeunt. 

Sir Charles (speaking without). Miss Selwyn ! your 
aunt has despatched me to say that (enters) Miss 
Selwyn ! Miss Selwyn ! This saucy heiress avoids me 
as if I was a collector of the income-tax. I see how it 
is ; she has the impudence to dislike me without asking 
her aunt's consent negatives me without a division. 
But I'll have her yet I'll marry her (as I got into 
Parliament) for opposition's sake. Snug house this 
of her friend. Miss Hartington's. Her father, I hear, 
a rich banker. I rather suspect too that little Tory is 
somewhat taken with me. She listened to everything 
I said as attentively as a reporter. Well, egad ! in 
case I should fail in the one, I think I may as well 
make sure of the other. Two strings to my bow, as 
Lord Either-Side says in the House. But who have we 
here ? 

Enter Mr. HAIITINGTOX. 

Oh! some poor pensioner of the family, I suppose. 
One, too, who must have got his pension upon very 
honest terms, for his coat is evidently not ivorth 
turning. 

Mr. Hart. Some troublesome visitor, that I must 
get rid of (aside). 

Sir C. Pray, my good friend, is there any one at 
home? 

Mr. Hart. No, sir. 

Sir C. I thought his friends were out by his look- 
ing so shabby (aside). And you, sir, I presume, are a 
quarterly visitor to this family, or monthly, perhaps, 
or weekly ; the Treasury, I know, pays quarterly. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 269 

Mr. Hart. It is true, sir, I am dependent upon the 
master of this house for all the comfort and happiness 
I enjoy. 

Sir C. I knew it, at the first glance I knew it. Let 
me alone for the physiognomy of placemen and pen- 
sioners from the careless smile of the sinecure holder 
to the keen forward-looking eye of the reversionist. 
This fellow may be useful to me (aside). And what 
are the services, pray, which you render in return to 
your benefactor ? 

Mr. Hart. The smile, sir, which his good actions 
always leave upon my cheek, and the sweet sleep which 
he knows I enjoy, after witnessing the happy effects of 
his charity, are ample repayment to him for the utmost 
efforts of his benevolence. 

Sir C. Then, upon my soul, he is more easily paid 
than any of those / have ever had dealings with. I 
could smile bright or sleep heavy ; but the guineas, 
being both bright and heavy, were always preferred to 
my smiling and sleeping. 

Mr. Hart. I shall be kept here all day by this 
troublesome coxcomb (aside). Your pardon, sir, I 
have some business to transact for Mr. Hartington. 

Sir C. Stay, my fine fellow, just one minute. How 
should you like to have an opportunity of serving your 
benefactor, and receiving the thanks of this honourable 
house for your good offices ? 

Mr. Hart. Everything that concerns Mr. Harting- 
ton, sir, is as dear to me as my own immediate 
interests. 

Sir. C. Exactly what we say of Great Britain in the 
House. ' Everything that concerns Great Britain is as 

dear to me (mimicJdng) .' But, I say, my old 

pensioner, you know the boarding-house down street ? 
(Mr. H. nods his head). Good feeding there, by the 



270 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

bye commons fit for Lords ; only that the bills are 
brought in too early in the session. But call upon me 
there to-morrow or next day, and I'll employ you in 
some way that may be useful to you. In the mean- 
time, as old Hartington seems to have a few amiable 
oddities about charity and so forth, you can tell him, if 
you have an opportunity, that / too have a wonderful 
taste that way. Oh ! you smile, sir, do you ? Well, 
then, to show you that I have, here's (takes out his 
purse) yet stay just wait till my friends come into 
power, and, as I think you love tippling, I'll get you 
made a gauger, you dog ! 

Mr. Hart. Keep your patronage, sir, for those who 
want it, and, above all, for those who deserve it. The 
master of this house is, thank Heaven ! the only patron 
/ require. Let but my conduct meet with his appro- 
bation, and I may look up, with hope, to that highest 
of places, which the power of monarchs cannot give, 
nor the caprices of this world deprive me of. [Exit. 

Sir C. Well said, old boy ; though, for the soul of 
me, I cannot imagine what is the place he alludes to. 
'Tis not in the Red-Book, I'm sure. But no matter 
he may be useful in delivering a billet-doux for me to 
Miss Hartington. Cursed troublesome things those 
billet-doux ! When I'm Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
I mean to propose a tax on them (mimicking some 
public speaker). 'Mr. Chairman! I move that all 
love-dealings shall be transacted upon stamps. Soft 
nonsense, sir, upon a one-and-sixpenny ; when the 
passion is to any amount, an eighteen-pen'orth more ; 
and a proposal for marriage No, curse it, I'll not 

lay anything additional upon marriage. It never came 
under the head of luxuries, and is quite tax enough in 
itself. [Exit. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 271 



SCENE III. Another Apartment in Mr. HARTINGTON'S 
House. 

Enter Miss HARTINGTON. 

Miss Hart. How long this loitering girl is away ! 
my heart sickens with anxiety for her return. It can- 
not surely be De Rosier whom I saw at the library; 
and yet his features, air, manner, altogether scarcely 
leave a doubt upon my heart. Oh, De Rosier ! What 
strange caprice of fortune can have lowered thy station 
in life so suddenly? And yet, wealth was not the 
charm that attracted me, nor could riches shed one 
additional grace upon that which is bright and esti- 
mable already. 

SONG-.* Miss HARTINGTON. 

When Leila touch'd the lute, 

Not then alone 'twas felt, 
But, when the sounds were mute, 

In memory still they dwelt. 
Sweet lute ! in nightly slumbers 
Still we heard thy morning numbers. 

Ah ! how could she, who stole 

Such breath from simple wire, 
Be led, in pride of soul, 

To string with gold her lyre ? 
Sweet lute ! thy chords she breaketh ; 
Golden now the strings she waketh ! 

But where are all the tales 

Her lute so sweetly told ? 
In lofty themes she fails, 

And soft ones suit not gold. 
Rich lute ! we see thee glisten, 
But, alas ! no more we listen ! 

* Reprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 389. 



272 M.F., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

Enter SUSAN. 

Well, dear Susan, what news ? 

Susan. Why, you see, miss, I went to the circulating 
library, and as I forgot the name of the book you bid 
me get, I thought I would ask for one of my own 
choosing. So, says I, ( Sir, Miss Hartington sent me 
for the " Comical Magazine," with the blue and red cuts 
in it ; ' upon which he blushed up, and 

Miss Hart. Who blushed ? Tell me, is it he ? Is 
it, indeed, Mr. De Eosier ? 

Susan. La ! miss, there's no comfort in telling you 
a story ; you are always in such a hurry to get at the 
contents of it. 

Miss Hart. Nay, but, my dear Susan ! 

Susan. Well, if you will have it all at once, it is 
he it is the same elegant young Mr. De Rosy, who 
used to walk by the windows in London to admire you, 
and there he is now behind the counter of that library, 
with a pen stuck in his beautiful ear, and his nice white 
hands all over with the dust of them dirty little story- 
books. 

Miss Hart. There's a mystery in this which I can- 
not account for. I did indeed hear from one who knew 
him well that he depended upon precarious remittances 
from France ; but ' then 

' Susan. Lord, miss ! your emigrants are always 
purcarious people, though, indeed, to give the devil his 
due, Mr. De Eosy is as little like one as may be ; for, 
I purtest and wow, he speaks English almost as well as 
myself ; and he used to give a pound-note as prettily 
as if he had been a banker's clerk all his life-time. 

' Miss Hart. He has given you money, then, 
Susan? 

' Susan. Once in a way, miss. A trifle or so. And, 



M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 273 

God knows ! I earned it well by answering all his trouble- 
some questions about who were your visitors, and who 
you liked best, and whether you ever talked of him after 
the night he danced with you at the ball. 

6 Miss Hart. That night ! The only time I ever 
heard his voice ! And, did he seem to know you to- 
day, Susan ? ' 

Susan. Indeed, miss, I made believe not to know 
him ; for I have lived too long among my betters not 
to larn that it is bad taste to go on knowing people 
after they have come into misfortune. But when I told 
him you sent me for the ' Comical Magazine,' with the 
blue and red cuts in it, la ! how he did blush and stare ! 

Miss Hart. What a taste must he impute to rne ! 
It would be imprudent, perhaps cruel, to go there my- 
self, and yet I feel I cannot resist the inclination. Give 
me the catalogue, Susan, and in a quarter of an hour 
hence bring my walking dress to the drawing-room. 
(Goes out reading the catalogue.) * Fatal Attachment.' 
' Victim of Poverty.' Heigho ! [Exit. 

Susan. Ay Heigho ! indeed. It must be a very, 
very stout, hardy love that will not take cold when the 
poverty season sets in, for it is but too true what some 
fine poet has said, that c When Poverty comes in at the 
door, Love flies out of the window.' 

SONG.* SUSAN. 

Young Love lived once in an humble shed, 

Where roses breathing, 

And woodbines wreathing 
Around the lattice their tendrils spread, 
As wild and sweet as the life he led. 

His garden flourished, 

For young Hope nourish'd 

* Keprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 385. 
T 



274 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

The infant buds with beams and showers ; 
But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed, 
And not even Love can live on flowers. 

Alas ! that Poverty's evil eye 
Should e'er come hither, 
Such sweets to wither ! 
The flowers laid down their heads to die, 
And Hope fell sick, as the witch drew nigh. 
She came one morning, 
Ere Love had warning, 

And raised the latch, where the young god lay 
' Oh, oh ! ' said Love, ' is it you ? good bye ; ' 
So he oped the window, and flew away ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE IV. A Circulating Library. 

Enter LEATHERHEAD. 

Leath. Bless me ! Bless me ! Where is this fine 
gentleman, my shopkeeper ? Idling his time, I war- 
rant him, with some of the best-bound books in the 
shop. Ah ! 'Tis a foolish thing for a scholar to turn 
bookseller, just as foolish as it is for a jolly fellow to 
turn wine-merchant ; they both serve themselves be- 
fore their customers, and the knowledge and the wine 
all get into their own heads. And your poets too I 
extraordinary odd fish ! only fit to be served up at the 
tables of us booksellers, who feed upon them, as the 
dogs fed upon poor Rumble's Pegasus. 

SONG. LEATHERHEAD. 

Robert Rumble, a poet of lyric renown, 

Hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
Was invited to dine with a 'Squire out of town, 

With his hey scribble hy scribble ho ! 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 275 

His nag had a string-halt, as well as -his lyre, 
So he mounted and rode to the house of the 'Squire, 
Who was one of those kind-hearted men, that keep hounds 
-Just to hunt off the vermin from other men's grounds, 
With my hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 

The huntsman that morning had bought an old hack, 

Hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
To cut up as a delicate lunch for the pack, 

With my hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
But who can describe Robert Rumble's dismay, 
When the 'Squire, after dinner, came smirking to say, 
That, instead of the dog-horse, some hard-hearted wag 
Had cut up, by mistake, Robert Rumble's lean nag, 

With his hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 

But ' Comfort yourself,' said the 'Squire to the Bard, 

Hey scribble hy scribble, ho'! 
4 There's the dog-horse still standing alive in the yard,' 

With my hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
Then they saddled the dog-horse, and homeward he set, 
So suspiciously eyed by each dog that he met, 
That you'd swear, notwithstanding his cavalry airs, 
They suspected the steed he was on should be theirs. 

With my hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 

Arrived safe at home, to his pillow he jogs, 

Hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
And dreams all the night about critics and dogs, 

With his hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
His nag seem'd a Pegasus, touch'd in the wind, 
And the curs were all wits, of the true Cynic kind, 
Who, when press'd for a supper, must bite ere they sup, 
And who ate Robert Rumble's poor Pegasus up, 

With a hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 

Why, De Rosier ! Mr. De Rosier ! I say 
Enter HENRY DE ROSIEB, with a book in his hand. 
Leath. What is the meaning of all this, sir ? 

T 2 



276 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING, 

What have you been about ? Do you mean to ruin 
me? 

De Ros. I ask pardon, sir. I have been just look- 
ing over the last new publication to see if it be fit for 
the young ladies of the boarding-school. 

Leath. Which is as much as to say, sir, that you 
would sooner ruin me than the young ladies of the 
boarding-school ! I am ashamed of you. 

De Ros. I really thought, sir, I had done every- 
thing that 

Leath. Done, sir ? everything's imdone, sir ; and I 
shall be so myself very soon. Here's books to go out, sir, 
and they won't walk of themselves, will they ? Here's 
Tricks upon Travellers, bespoke by Mrs. Kingwell, 
who keeps the Bed Fox ; and there's the Road to Ruin 
for the young Squire, that sets off for London to-night. 
Here are parcels too to go by the coach ; Ovid's Art of 
Love, to be left at the Transport Office ; and the Lady 
of the Lake, to be delivered at the Lying-in Hospital. 

De Ros. We have had a new subscriber this morn- 
ing, sir ; Miss Hartington. 

Leath. (Bustling among the books on the counter). 
So much the better hope she's a good one reads 
clean and neat won't double down the corners, or 
favour us with proof impressions of her thumbs. Come ; 
put these volumes back in their places. Lord ! Lord ! 
how my customers ill-use my books ! Here's nothing 
but scribbling in the Lives of the Poets ; and, dear me, 
the World all turned topsy-turvy by Miss Do-little ! 
There's our best set of Public Characters have been 
torn to pieces at the Good-natured Club; and, bless 
me ! bless me ! how the Wild Irish Girl has been 
tossed and tumbled by Captain O'Callaghan ! There, 
that will do ; now mind you don't stir from this till 
I come back ; I am just going to remind neighbour 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 277 

Eumble that he forgot to pay for the Pleasures of 
Memory ; and then I have to step to the pawnbroker's 
up street to redeem the Wealth of Nations, which poor 
Mr. Pamphlet popped there for a five-and-sixpenny 
dollar. Bless me ! bless me ! how my customers ill- 
use my books ! [Exit. 
De Ros. There is some little difference between this 
and the gay sphere I moved in, when Miss Hartington's 
beauty first disturbed my mind ; when through the 
crowded world I saw but her alone, and felt her in- 
fluence even where she was not. Well, the short dream 
is over! the support of a beloved mother must now 
sweeten the toil to which I am destined ; and he but 
little deserves the smile of Fortune who has not the 
manliness to defy her frown. Besides, Heaven has 
blessed me with that happy imagination which retains 
the impressions of past pleasure, as the Bologna-stone 
treasures up sunbeams ; and the light of one joy 
scarcely ever faded from my heart before I had some- 
how contrived to illuminate its place with another. 

SONGr.* HENRY DE HOSIER. 

Spirit of joy ! thy altar lies 

In youthful hearts, that hope like mine, 
And 'tis the light of laughing eyes 

That leads us to thy fairy shrine. 
There if we find the sight, the tear, 

They are not those to sorrow known, 
But breath so soft and drops so clear, 

That Bliss may claim them for her own. 
Then give me, give me, while I weep, 

The sanguine hope that brightens woe, 
And teaches even our tears to keep 

The tinge of rapture while they flow. 

* Reprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 388. 



278 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

The child who sees the dew of night 

Upon the spangled hedge at morn, 
Attempts to catch the drops of light, 

But wounds his finger with the thorn. 
Thus oft the brightest joys we seek 

Dissolve, when touch'd, and turn to pain ; 
The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, 

The tears they waken long remain. 
But give me, give me, while I weep, 

The sanguine hope that brightens woe, 
And teaches even our tears to keep 

The tinge of rapture while they flow. 

(Looking out.} 'Tis Miss Hartington herself, and this 
way she comes. How shall I avoid her? Yet no;., 
since hope is fled, come, honest pride, to my relief, and 
let me meet my fate unshrinkingly. I must not, how- 
ever, seem to know her ; nor let her, if possible, re- 
cognise me. [He retires to the counter.. 

Enter Miss HAKTINGTON and SUSAN. 

Miss Hart. Yes; there he is. How altered from 
the lively, fashionable De Kosier ! 

Susan. I told you, miss, what a figure he cuts ; 
but I'm glad to see /he has taken the black pen out of 
his ear. 

Miss Hart. I surely ought to acknowledge him : 
he will think me proud and cold if I do not. Mr. de 
Kosier 

Susan. Mister, indeed. La ! miss, you would not 
Mister a shopkeeper, would you? Let me speak to 
him. Young man ! 

Miss Hart, (drawing Susan back). Hush, Susan, 
for Heaven's sake. 

De Ros. (coining forward). Is there any book,, 
madam, you wish me to look out for you ? 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 279 

Miss Hart. No, sir ; but 

De Eos. On this shelf, madam, lie the French 
[Memoirs, which are, of course, not unknown to you 

Miss Hart. They are very interesting, but 

' De Ros. Oh, most particularly so (turning away 
from her, and talking rapidly). While history shows 
us events and characters as they appeared on the grand 
theatre of public affairs, these Memoirs conduct us into 
the green-room of politics, where we observe the little 
intrigues and jealousies of the actors, and witness the 
rehearsal of those scenes which dazzle and delude in 
representation. 

6 Susan. Ah ! he wouldn't have talked politics to her 
so when he was a gentleman (aside). 

' Miss Hart. It was not for this purpose, Mr. de 
Rosier, that 

De Ros. Oh, your pardon, madam ; then perhaps 
you prefer the poets here (pointing to another shelf). 

Susan. Lord, no, young man ! She hates poverty 
and all its kin, I assure you. 

Miss Hart. I desire that you will be silent, Susan ; 
he will think that we come to sport with his misfor- 
tunes. 

De Ros. The few English poets who have worshipped 
Love (he looks at Miss Hartington, and both become 
confused). 

Susan. Oh ho ! 

De Ros. I must not forget myself (aside). I was 
saying, madam, that the few English poets who have 
worshipped Love seem so coldly ignorant of his power 
and attributes that the shrine which they raised to 
him might be inscribed, like the famous altar at Athens, 
' to the unknown (rod.' ' Cowley here, and Donne 
(taking down two books\ are the chief of these un- 
enlightened idolaters' far from wishing us to feel 



280 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

what they write, they appear very unwilling that we 
should even understand it ; and having learned from 
mythology that Love is the child of Night, they visit 
upon the son all the coldest obscurity of the parent. 
There is nothing less touching than these quibbling, 
pedantic lovers, who seem to think that their mistresses, 
like the Queen of Sheba, are to be won by riddles.' 

Miss Hart. I perceive that he is determined not to 
acknowledge me ; yet, if he could but know what is 
passing here (laying her hand, on her heart) at this 
moment, he would not, perhaps, regret that fate has 
disturbed the balance between us ; since just as much 
as fortune has sunk on his side, I feel that love has 
risen on mine. 

Susan. La ! come away, miss ; I'm sure it can't be 
proper things he's saying to you ; for I never heard 
such rigmarole words in my born days. 

De Ros. But here is a poet born in a softer clime, 
who seems to breathe the true temperature of affection, 
the air of that habitable zone of the heart, which is 
equally removed from the bright frost-work of sentiment 
on one side and the tainting meridian of the senses on 
the other. 

TRIO.* Miss HARTINGTON, SUSAN, and DE ROSIER. 

To sigh, yet feel no pain, 

To weep, yet scarce know why ; 
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, 

Then throw it idly by ; 
To kneel at many a shrine, 

Yet lay the heart on none ; 
To think all other charms divine, 

But those we just have won 
This is love careless love 
Such as kindleth hearts that rove. 

* Keprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 387. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 281 

To keep one sacred flame 

Thro' life, nncMU'd, unmoved; 
To love, in wintry age, the same 

That first in youth we loved ; 
To feel that we adore 

To such refined excess, 
That tho' the heart would break with more, 

We could not live with less 
This is love faithful love 
Such as saints might feel above ! 

END OF THE FIEST ACT. 



ACT II. 

SCENE. Part of the Race-Ground. 

Crowd of PEASANTS, HAWKERS, &c., among whom are 
DAVT and LA FOSSE. 

SONG-. DAVT and Chorus of Peasants. 

Come, lads, life's a whirligig ; 

Round we whisk 

With a joyous frisk, 

And till death stops the turn of our twirligig. 
Merry go round's the life for me. 

You, standing surly there, 

You, with the curly hair, 

Dick, that's laughing here, 

Tom, that's quaffing here, 

You too, my gipsy lass, 

Spite of your lips, alas ! 

All must give up this world of glee. 



282 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

Then come, lads, life's a whirligig ; 

Round we whisk 

With a joyous frisk, 
And till death stops the turn of our twirligig. 

Merry go round's the life for me. 
Time's short but we'll have our fun of it ; 

Life a race is, 

That tries our paces, 
And, when Mirth makes a good run of it, 

Devil may take the hindmost for me. 

Lads that love filling bowls, 

Girls that have willing souls, 

Those can soothe the way, 

Roll life smooth away. 

While there's a glass to drink, 

While there's a lass to wink, 

Who would give up this world of glee 1 
So come, lads, life's a whirligig, &c., &c. 

Davy. Come, lads, the races are just nigh to begin. 
There's John Bull going up the hill. Two to one on 
John Bull. Dang it ! that's my favourite horse (looking 
out). 

La Fosse. Oui, certainly ; that Bull is vare pretty 
horse. 

Davy. Just look how noble-minded he steps. Old 
Monsieur here must be taken in for a bit of a bet, I 
think (aside). Come, boys ! Oh, zounds ! (looking 
out) here's my old litter of a lady, as she calls -herself; 
and now shall I be tied behind her all day, and not get 
a sight of John Bull or Cronyhotontollygos. But I say, 
lads, stand before me a little mayhap, as she ha'nt 
got her tellumscope, she'll not spy me out. * (They 
stand round him.) 

Enter Lady BAB and Miss SELWYN. 
Miss S. Nay, my dear aunt 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 283. 

Lady B. I tell you, miss, my resolution is fixed 
'pon my word, I believe you think I am like a moveable 
pulley in mechanics, to be twirled about just as it suits 
your fancy. 

Miss S. Oh madam! if you did but see Captain 
Canvas, so unlike his brother ! 

Lady B. I don't care for that, miss ; I never did 
see him, nor never will that's categorical. 

Davy (behind). She says she won't see me 

Lady B. And as I perceive by your reveries, young 
lady, that you think there is some chance of his arriving 
here, I will give positive orders that he shall not be ad- 
mitted ; no, not even within the penumbra of my roof. 
Where's that fool Davy? 

Davy. Here, my lady (coming forth from the 
crowd, who all run off laughing, except the French- 
man). 

Lady B. Why, what's all this, sir ? . 

Davy. Why, my lady, you see, I ware only giving 

a piece of my advice to this poor outlandish mounseer 

here, not to let the knowing chaps trick him out of his 

half-pence at the races. 

La Fosse (advancing with bows). Oui, my lady ; 

Jean Bull 

Davy. Hush, mon! (putting his hand on his 
'mouth}. 

Lady B. Eun home, fellow, instantly, and tell the 
servants that if a gentleman of the name of Captain 
Canvas should call, he is to be told that we have given 
orders not to admit him. Captain Canvas, mind, Sir 
Charles's brother ; and then return hither instantly to 
attend me to the Stand-House. Fly. 

Davy. I fly, my lady. (He beckons to LA FOSSE to 
follow him, and exit.) 

La Fosse. Oui, certainly, but I cannot fly. 

[Exit after Davy. 



284 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

Lady B. I'll teach you, miss, what it is to fall in 
love without consulting your relations. I declare the 
young ladies of the present day shock me. Quite re- 
versing the qualities of what we chemists call the 
perfect metals, they are anything but ductile, and most 
shamefully combustible. It was very different in my 
time. 

Miss S. Nay, do not, dear aunt, take example by 
those times, when marriage was a kind of slave-trade, 
and when interest carried her unfeeling commerce even 
into the warm latitudes of youth and beauty. No, let 
Love banish such traffic from his dominions, and let 
Woman, mistress of her freedom, resign it only with 
her heart ! 

SONG-. Miss SELWTN. 

Dear aunt ! in the olden time of love, 

"When women like slaves were sptirn'd, 
A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove, 

To be teased by a fop, and return'd : 
But women grow wiser as men improve, 

And tho' beaux like monkeys amuse us, 
Oh ! think not we'd give such a delicate gem 
As the heart, to be play'd with or sullied by them ; 

No dearest aunt ! excuse us. 

We may know by the head on Cupid's seal 

What impression the heart will take ; 
If shallow the head, oh ! soon we feel 

What a poor impression 'twill make. 
Tho' plagued, Heaven knows ! by the foolish 

Of the fondling fop who pursues me, 
Oh ! think not I'd follow their desperate rule, 
Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool ; 

No dearest aunt ! excuse me. 

Enter Sir CHARLES, in a hurry. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 285 

Sir C. Ladies ! ladies ! ladies ! you'll be too late I 
you'll be too late. 

Lady B. What ! have the races begun, Sir 
Charles? 

Sir C. Begun ? yes, to be sure they have begun ; 
there's the high-blooded horse Regent has just started, 
and has set off in such a style as promises a race of 
glory ! 

DAVY enters. 

' Lady B. Bless me ! I wouldn't lose it for the world. 
Here, blockhead (to Davy) take this volume out of my 
pocket, 'tis Professor Plod's c Syllabus of .a Course of 
Lectures upon Lead,' and much too heavy to walk up 
hills with. (Gives him a large book.) Now, Sir 
Charles. 

* Sir C. Come, madam, you'll be delighted ; I am 
but just this moment come from the House (I mean 
the Stand-House), where the knowing ones take different 
sides, you understand, according as they think a horse 
will be in or out ; but upon this start they are all nem. 
con., and the universal cry from all sides is Regent 
against the field ! Huzza ! Huzza ! ' [Eoseunt. 

Davy. I say, Mounseer, Mounseer (calling on LA 
FOSSE). I must follow the old one now, but do you, 
you see, come up behind the Stand-House by-and-bye, 
just as if you had no concarn you know, and you and I 
will have a snug bet upon Cronyhotontollygos. 

La Fosse. Ah ! oui, certainly, sure, good master 
Davy. Dam rogue ! he want to get at my money, but 
pardi ! he as well look for brains in an oyster. Ah ! 
my money be all gone vid my cookery ! every ting but 
my poor tabatiere here (pauses, and looks with interest 
at his snuff-box). Ah, mon cher maitre ! you vas fond 
of my cookery, and I vas grand artiste in dat vay, to 



:286 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

be sure ; but now, by gar, I am like to de barber widotit 
customer, I have not even one sheephead to dress. My 
lady, Madame de Eosier, eat noting at all, young Mon- 
sieur de Rosier eat little or noting, and moi, pauvre 
moi ! I eat little and noting, just as it happen. Ah ! 
de Revolution destroy all de fine arts, and eating among 
de rest ! [Retires. 

Enter Captain CANVAS. 

Capt. C. Faithless, faithless sex! your hearts are 
like the waves, that keep no trace of us when we have 
left them ; another love soon follows in our wake, and 
the same bright embrace is ready for it. My letter 
apprized her of my return, and yet here, instead of a 
smiling welcome, I find her doors are shut against me. 
Brother ! brother ! I could resign to you with ease the 
rank and fortune to which I am entitled ; nay, even 
the brand of illegitimacy I could smile at ; but to see 
you thus bear away from me the dearest object of my 
affections is more than even this tough sailor's heart 
can endure. My poor departed messmate ! like thine, 
alas I has been my fate in love; like thine, too, be my 
destiny in death ! 

SONG-. Captain CANVAS. 

When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved, 

We saw no cloud Ms brow o'ercasting, 
But proudly he smiled, as if gay and unmoved, 

Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting ; 
And often, at night, when the tempest roll'd, 

He sung, as he paced the dark deck over, 
* Blow, wind, blow ! thou art not so cold 

As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover ! ' 

Yet he lived with the happy and seem'd to be gay, 
Tho' the woutid but sunk more deep for concealing; 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 287 

And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way, 

Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling ! 

And, still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued, 
He sung, as if sorrow had placed him above her, 

* Frown, Fate, frown ! thou art not so rude 

As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover I ' 

At length his career found a close in death, 

The close he long wish'd to his cheerless roving, 
For Victory shone on his latest breath, 

And he died in a cause of his heart's approving. 
But still he remember'd his sorrow and still 

He sung, till the vision of life was over 
' Come, death, come ! thou are not so chill 

As the heart of the maid that deceived her lover ! ' 



I must find out De Kosier. They told me, at his former 
lodgings in town, that he had retired hither for his 
health. Pray, friend, can you direct me to the house 
of Mr. Leatherhead, the bookseller ? 

La Fosse. Ah ! oui, sare, yes, vare well indeed ; 
dat is vare my young master is bound up in a shopman 
{aside). 

Capt. C. Does a gentleman of the name of De 
Rosier lodge there ? 

La Fosse. Oui, sare, he lodge there in the shop. 

Capt. C. The shop? 

La Fosse. Yes, sare, in de shop, pon de bookshelf, 
vat you call 

Capt. C. Oh ! I understand you, always among the 
books. I know De Rosier is of a studious turn. He 
does not then see much company, I suppose ? 

La Fosse. Pardon, monsieur, all de young ladies 
of dis place make visit to him exactement as they come 
out of de water. 

Capt. C. Indeed. 



288 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

La Fosse. Oh ! yes, he have de name of all de- 
pretty little girl down in von book. 

Gapt. C. Happy De Hosier! who can thus trifle 
away your time in those light gallantries which require 
so little expenditure of feeling to maintain them, and 
for which the loose coin of the senses is sufficient, with- 
out drawing upon the capital of the heart, while I 

oh, Harriet Selwyn ! what a rich mine of affection have 
you slighted ! 

La Fosse. Dis way, sare. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II. The Circulating Library. 
Enter SUSAN and DE EOSIER. 

Susan (looldng at a bank-note). Well I purtest,. 
sir, you are quite yourself again, and if you had but 
a three-corner hat on you now, you'd be just as much a 
gentleman as ever. 

De Ros. Come then, now, my good Susan, do tell 
me what are those little favourable symptoms, which 
you think you have discovered for me in your mistress. 

Susan. Why in the first place, she says so often 
you are not worth thinking of, that it is very plain she 
thinks of nothing else. And then she is as jealous of 
you 

De Ros. Nay, Susan, there you mock me; jealous 
of me ! these books are my only mistresses ; and fashion- 
able ones' they are, I grant, for they circulate through 
half the town. 

Susan. These books indeed ! No, no, Mr. De Kosey ; 
for all you look so modest, we have found out the lady 
in the cottage down the lane, so we have. She that 
was smuggled over to you, you know, from France. 

De Ros. My mother, by all that is excellent ! (aside) 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 289 

and she is jealous of me, is she ? Did she trace me to 
the cottage herself? What does she say of it ? tell me, 
tell me quick, dear Susan (with impatience). 

Susan. Well, if ever I saw anything so audacious ! 
he does not even deny it, hasn't even the vartue to tell 
a lie about it. I'll be hanged if I don't now believe 
every word they said about you last night at the tea- 
party. 

De Ros. Why, what did they say, good Susan ? Oh, 
happiness unexpected ! (aside.) 

Susan. They said you had as many wives as the 
great Cram of Tartary; that your Lady in the lane 
was a French Duchess or thereabouts, that smuggled 
herself over to you in a large packing-case, purtending 
to be crockery-ware pretty crockery, indeed ! 

De Ros. This discovery gives me new life ; jealous of 
me! 

Susan. There, if he isn't quite proud of the dis- 
covery ! oh rakery ! rakery ! but I'll go and tell it all 
to my mistress. Lord ! Lord ! what will the times 
come to, when Duchesses are sent about, like other 
brittle ware, in packing-cases ? [Exit SUSAN. 

De Ros. Jealousy ! thou shadow from Love's form, 
which still the darker falls the warmer light he moves in 
her heart has felt thee, then. Happy, happy De Rosier ! 
it may be folly perhaps to feel so happy, but Wisdom 
herself can do no more ; and there is nothing in life 
like that sweet philosophy, which softens all that is 
painful, and enhances all that is pleasant, by making 
the best of the one, and the most of the other. [Exit. 

Enter LEATHEKHEAD. 

Leath. (calling). Mr. De Eosier ! Why, De Eosier, 
I say. If this young Frenchman keeps me bawling 
after him this way, I shall split my voice into two, like 

u 



290 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

Orator Puff, of the Debating Society, whose eloquence 
is a happy mixture of bubble and squeak, and who 
begins all his sentences in the garret, and ends them 
in the cellar (mimicking}. 

SONG-. LEATHERHEAD. 

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, 

The one squeaking thus, and the other down so ; 
In each sentence he utter'd he gave you your choice, 
For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. 
Oh ! oh ! Orator Puff, 
One voice for one orator's surely enough. 

But he still talk'd away, spite of coughs and of frowns, 
So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, 
That a wag once, on hearing the orator say 
1 My voice is for war,' ask'd him, ' Which of them, pray 1 ' 
Oh ! oh ! &c. 

Reeling homewards, one evening, top-heavy with gin, 
And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the Crown, 

He tripp'd near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, 

' Sinking Fund ' the last words as his noddle came down. 
Oh! oh! &c. 

1 Good Lord ! ' he exclaim'd, in his he-and-she tones, 
' Help me out help me out I have broken my bones ! ' 
' Help you out ! ' said a Paddy who pass'd, l what a bother ! 
Why, there's two of you there ; can't you help one another ? ' 
Oh ! oh ! &c. 

Oh ! you are here, sir, are you ? 

Enter DE HOSIER, with printed sheets in his hand. 

Leath. So, so ! a specimen of my new printing-press. 
A bright thought of mine, Mr. Thing-o-me, wasn't it, 
eh? 

De Ros. Oh ! excellent, sir (laughing). 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 291 

Leath. I think so. Poet Rumble here must have 
sent to London, if I couldn't print for him. 

De Ros. Oh ! most inconvenient, sir : his Pindarics 
must have gone by the waggon, and his Epigrams by 
the long heavy coach. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Leath. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Damn the fellow, I believe he 
is laughing at my printing-press (aside). But- let's 
see ; how goes on my new compositor ? 

De Ros. Why, pretty well, sir ; he generally puts 
one word in place for another, which, in poetry like 
Mr. Rumble's, does not make much difference. Indeed, 
as in the militia, the substitute is always a better man 
than the principal, so here in the line I mean Mr. 
Dactyl's line, sir ; you'll excuse me. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Leath. Curse the grinning puppy ! I wish the types 
were down his throat, large Roman letters and all 
(aside). 

De Ros. Allow me to give you an instance or two, 
sir, of your printer's happy deviation from the copy 
(reads). ' The dear and fragrant sigh of infancy,' he 
has converted into a ' dire and flagrant sign of in- 
famy : ' c sweets of morning.' he has turned into ' suits 
of mourning ; ' and ' haunted by all the mellow dreams 
of Horace ,' he has made ' hunted by all the melo-drames 
of horses. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Leath. Ha ! ha ! Impudent rascal ! how merry he is ! 
but I'll teach him to take liberties with the press, the 
Jacobin ! He'd give his eyes to go to the races, I know 
he would ; but I'll not let him, I'll go there myself to 
spite him. I'll give him a job, too, that my gentleman 
won't like (aside) . Here you, Mr. Scholar, here's some 
books to go to Lady Bab Blue's library, and you must 
take and arrange them for her. 

De Ros. What ! I, sir ? 

Leath. Yes, you, sir ; and leave the porter to look 

TJ 2 



292 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

after the shop. She is a lady of learning, they say, and 
ought to have a critic to wait on her. Happy to re- 
commend you for that situation. She might like to 
have a reviewer on her establishment, fifty pounds a 
year and the run of the kitchen. Sorry to part with you 
but (all this time Leatherhead is at the counter 
arranging the books\ 

Enter Capt. CANVAS and LA FOSSE. 

Capt. C. (staring at seeing De Rosier). De Rosier ! 
for heaven's sake, what is the meaning 

De Ros. Hush ! and I'll tell you all presently. 

Leath. Who is that, eh ? 

De Ros. Merely a gentleman, sir, who wishes to see 
our catalogue. 

Leath. And who is that foreign-looking thief, that 
stands grinning at you there ? 

De Ros. Oh ! that, sir, is What shall I say to 
get a few moments' explanation with Canvas ? (aside). 
That, sir, is a French man of letters, who having 
heard of your new printing-press, is come to engage 
with you as a translator (retires to the back of the 
stage with Capt. C.) 

Leath. Translator ! himself an original quite : I 
must talk to him though. Servant, sir. Well acquainted, 
I'm told, with the learned tongues ? 

La Fosse. Ah ! he have heard of my cookery 
(aside) Oui certainly, sare, dress the tongue a 
merveille, and de sauce ! by gar you would eat your 
fader with it. 1 

Leath. Eat my father ! what the devil does he 
mean ? 

La Fosse. You like it, sare, done English way ? 

1 A cette sauce-l on mangeroit son p&re. 

L'Almanach des Gourmands. 



M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 293 

Leath. Yes, yes, done into English, to be sure ; and 
let it be something that will go down, you know. 

La Fosse. Ah ! pardi, he will go down fast enough 
(laying his hand on his stomach). Den, sare, I can 
make you de finest nick-nack out of noting at all. 

Leath. How well he understands the art of author- 
ship ! (aside). 

La Fosse. Hash up de old ting like new 

Leath. Right book-making ! 

La Fosse. Vid plenty salt 

Leath. Attic bravo ! 

La Fosse. Vare much acid 

Leath. Satiric excellent ! 

La Fosse. And den de little someting varm and 
piquante for de ladies 

Leath. Oh ! it will do it will do (throiving his 
arms round La Fosse) I am so lucky to meet you. 
But let's see (looks at his watch), have you any ob- 
jection, sir, to walk towards the race-ground? We 
may talk of these matters on the way. 

La Fosse. Oui, sure, certainly ; tho' pardi, sare, 
your conversation give me appetite enough widout de 
walk. 

Leath. Oh ! you flatter me, sir. 

La Fosse. Apres vous, monsieur. 

[Exeunt ceremoniously. 

Capt. CANVAS and DE HOSIER come forward."] 

Capt. C. But why did you not answer my letter, 
and acquaint me with this fall of your fortunes ? 

De Ros. The truth is, my dear Canvas, I have such 
an aversion to letter-writing, that I have sometimes 
thought the resolution of Sir Phelim O'Neal, never to 
answer anything but a challenge, was the only peaceable 



294 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

way of getting through life. But let us. not talk of 
misery love is our only theme. 

Capt. C. And that way lies my misery. Oh ! if I 
could but see the faithless girl once more, I'd take a 
last, an eternal farewell ! fly to my ship, forget the 
very name of woman and, like the Doge of Venice, 
marry myself to the sea. 

De Ros. Her aunt, Lady Bab, you say, has for- 
bidden you the house ? 

Capt. C. Positively excludes me. 

De Ros. Heaven send she may do me the same 
favour ! ' But though her ladyship is not at home to 
Love, she seldom refuses the visits of Learning, an ac- 
quaintance whom she treats ceremoniously, not being 
on very familiar terms with him ; ' there lie my letters 
of introduction to her presence ('pointing to a parcel 
on the counter). 

Capt. C. What ! those books ? 

De Ros. Yes, those books, 'which are as ivelcome 
and about as useful to her ladyship as an opera-glass 
to a South-Sea islander.' 

Capt. C. But what did you say of an introduction 
to her presence ? 

De Ros. Why, simply, that my master has inflicted 
upon me the honour of carrying that parcel to Lady 
Bab's library, and if you have the least ambition for 
the employment, I will depute it to you with all my 
soul ; happy if, like other great men, I may be the 
means of making the fortune of my deputy, and if 
carrying out books should prove as profitable to you as 
keeping books has been to many others. 

Capt. C. 'Tis an excellent thought; I thank you 
from my heart for it. 

De Ros. You are not serious, Canvas ? 

Capt. C. Never was more serious in my life. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 295 

De Ros. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Why, what will your ship's 
company think of you, when they hear you have turned 
bookseller and stationer ? 

Capt. C. No matter, it will give me an opportunity 
of seeing her once more, and of returning into her 
hands this long-loved picture, whose colours, though 
fleeting, have not faded like her affections. 

De Ros. Very pretty, 'faith ! But I think I could 
match it. Where the deuce? (searching his pockets, 
and then going to a corner of the library) Oh ! here 
it is hid under the Baisers of Dorat covered, as it 
ought to be, with a whole volume of kisses ! (produces 
a miniature). There, I have . as little right to that 
copy, as any other man but myself has, in my opinion, 
to the original. It was done by my friend Crayon, 
from his own miniature of Miss Hartington, and 1 ran 
away with it. Prometheus had the image, when he 
stole the flame, but I, being provided with the flame 
(laying his hand on his heart}, stole the image. 

Capt. C. (looking at his own miniature). How 
many ghosts of departed promises haunt those faithless 
lips ! 

De Ros. (looking at his}. And how many little 
unfledged hopes lie nestling in that dimpled smile ! 

DUET. Capt. CANVAS and DE ROSIER. 

Capt. C. Here is the lip that betray'd, 

De Ros. Here is the blue eye that wann'd ; 

Capt. C. Lips for bewildering made ! 

De Ros. Eyes for enamouring form'd ! 

Both. While on her features I gaze, 

And trace every love-moulded line. 
Capt. C. Memory weeps o'er the days 

When I fancied her faithfully mine. 
De Ros. Hope bids me dream of bright days, 

And fancy her faithfully mine. 



296 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

De Ros. Here is the glance that inspired 
Capt. C. Here is the blush that deceived ; 
De Ros. Glances too wildly admired ! 
Capt. C. Blushes too fondly believed ; 
Both. While on her features, &c., &c. 

De Ros. But come, if you mean to be my deputy, 
there is no time to lose. Give me your coat. 

Capt. C. What ! must I 

De Ros. Of course, my dear fellow (taking off Capt. 
C.'s coat) ; though the lady herself is as blue as indigo, 
your coat need not be of the same livery with her 
stockings. 

Capt. C. Where do you mean to hide my uniform ? 

De Ros. Here, behind this large History of Eng- 
land ; and I believe it is the first time that anything 
naval has ever been kept out of sight by an English 
historian. Now put on this apron. Does Lady Bab 
know you ? 

Capt. C. Never has seen me. 

De Ros. So much the better. I have no doubt 
she will be taken with your scientific appearance and 
you may tell her you are versed in the Cannon Law, 
you know. Now for the books. ' God help you, if she 
should take a fancy to read any of these folios to you. 

6 Capt. C. I should never stand that. Like a re- 
probate Quaker, I should be soon read out of the 
meeting. 

' De Ros. 1 There, there's a hat for you, and now 
be off. 

Capt. C. Thanks, dear De Eosier; it is consoling 
to think, that though Love should break off one arm 
of Hope's anchor, there is yet another left for Friend- 
ship, upon whose hold my heart may rely. [Exit. 
[During this scene, Capt. C. puts on De Rosier ' 
shop-jacket, into the pocket of which De Rosier 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 297 

had, at the end of the duet, put his own 

miniature. Capt. C., when about to change, 

lays his miniature on the counter. 

De Ros. Poor Canvas ! Let me see (approaching 

the counter). Hey-day ! what's this ? By all that's 

perplexing, he has left his mistress's miniature behind 

him, and taken away mine with him in his pocket. 

Hollo ! hollo ! (calling after him). It is too late to 

catch him, and this exchange of mistresses may be fatal 

to us both. But away with apprehension ! I will not, 

this day, let one dark thought come near me. Oh 

woman ! woman ! who is there would live without the 

hope of being loved by thee ? 

SONGr. DE EOSIER. 

When life looks lone and dreary, 

What light can dispel the gloom 1 
When Time's swift wing glows weary, 

What charm can refresh his plume 1 
'Tis Woman, whose sweetness beameth 

O'er all that we feel or see ; 
And if man of heaven e'er dreameth, 

'Tis when he thinks purely of thee, 
Oh, Woman ! 

Let conquerors fight for glory, 

Too dearly the meed they gain ; 
Let patriots live in story 

Too often they die in vain. 
Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em, 

This world can offer to me 
No throne like Beauty's bosom, 

No freedom like serving thee, 
Oh, Woman ! 

{Exit. 



298 M,P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

SCENE III. MADAME DE HOSIER'S Cottage. 

Enter LA FOSSE. 

La Fosse. Diable t'emporte, you big bookseller 
vid your tongues and your bacon and apres tout 
after all his Bacon turn out to be an old dead Chan- 
celier. Morbleu ! and ven I tell him I vas Cook, by 
gar, he begin beat me, as I do de young live pig to 
make him tender. Ah ! here is my maitresse and 
vat de devil old beggar-man she got vid her ? 

Enter Madame DE HOSIER and Mr. HARTINGTON. 

Mad. de Ros. I am afraid, my poor man, those 
rude servants must have hurt you. 

Mr. Hart. They might have hurt me, madam, had 
you not kindly opened your door and admitted me. 

Mad. de Ros. I am sure their master, whoever he 
may be, would have punished them for their rudeness, 
if he had seen them. 

Mr. Hart. I do not know that, madam ; there is 
such congeniality in the pursuits of modern masters 
and their servants, that we can hardly expect more 
civilization from the amateur coachman than from the 
professor. 

Mad. de Ros. You seem to want refreshment ; sit 
down, and you shall have something. (He sits down.) 
Here, La Fbsse, bring this poor man some cold meat. 

La Fosse. Oui, my lady. Ah ! dat is the way all 
my cookery goes (aside and exit). 

Mad. de Ros. You have seen better days, I doubt 
not. 

Mr. Hart. And so have you, lady, if rightly I can 
conjecture from those manners, which, like the orna- 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 299 

ments of a fallen capital, may be traced long after the 
pillar, on which it stood, is broken. 

Enter LA FOSSE (bringing in a tray with cold 
meat, <&c.) 

La Fosse. Here is de little beef for him. Ah ! if 
ma pauvre maitresse had de larder so large as her 
heart, de ugly malady of starving would be soon 
banish from the world like the small-pock (lays it on 
the table, and exit). 

Mr. Hart. My words seem to affect you, lady. 

Mad. de Ros. I know not why they should ; 'tis 
but a languor of spirits arising from ill-health. 

Mr. Hart, (at the table, while she is standing 
forward). I see it, 'tis the heart's ill-health the pang 
of honest pride struggling with poverty. 

Mad. de Ros. (turning round). Nay. prithee, eat, 
my good man. 

Mr. Hart. Thanks, lady, I am quite refreshed 
(rises) ; and now, forgive me if I ask, how long you 
may have felt this illness under which you suffer. 

Mad. de Ros. Not very long; and, in truth, so 
many have been my hours of health and cheerfulness, 
that I feel as if I had already shared my full proportion 
of blessings, and can thank Heaven for the balm that 
has been at the top of my cup, even while I drain the 
bitterness that lies at the bottom. 

Mr. Hart. Patience ! how thy smile adorns 
adversity ! (aside). You may think it presumptuous, 
madam, that one so poor and humble as I am should 
venture to prescribe a remedy for the languor that 
oppresses your spirits ; but 

Mad. de Ros. Alas ! my good man ! 'tis far beyond 
the reach of art even more refined than yours. 

Mr. Hart. Pardon me, lady. During the wander- 



300 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

ing life I have led among the poor and wretched, and 
the various sicknesses of heart and spirits which I have 
met with, I have frequently witnessed the efficacy of 
one simple medicine, which, if delicately administered, 
seldom fails to remove at least a part of the pressure 
under which the patient languishes. 

Mad. de Ros. Some village charm, I doubt not 
but I must indulge the poor old man (aside). 

Mr. Hart. There is a portion of it in this small 
bag ; 'tis what the old philosophers looked for in 
crucibles, and what the modern ones think they have 
found in paper-mills. Too large a dose of it is apt to 
make the head giddy ; and in some temperaments it 
produces a restless itching in the hands, which requires 
a constant application of the medicine to that part. 
When this symptom breaks out in certain ranks of life, 
the operation of the drug has been found to be ruinous 
to the Constitution. 

Mad. de Ros. (smiling). It seems to be rather a 
desperate remedy you recommend me. 

Mr. Hart. No, lady, you may take it safely. When 
prescribed by ' friendship or ' humanity for the relief of 
those we ' esteem or ' compassionate, it is then indeed 
a precious balsam, whose cordial not only refreshes the 
heart of him who takes, but whose fragrance long 
lingers on the hand of him who administers it. 
There, open it when I am gone, and before it is ex- 
hausted you shall be furnished with a fresh supply. 

Enter LA FOSSE hastily. 

La Fosse. Oh madam ! madam ! here is a gentle- 
man have driven himself and his carriage into de ditch, 
and de coachman and de rest of the inside passenger 
have been pull out of de window. 

Mad. de Eos. Is there anyone hurt ? 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 301 

La Fosse. Only de gentleman's head a little crack, 
I believe mais le voici here he is come. 

Enter Sir Charles CANVAS. 

Sir C. Curse that awkward post ! caught in the 
fore wheel and spilt me off the dickey. Just the way 
in the House, though, when a Member arrives at apost, 
he always vacates his seat immediately. 

Mad. de Ros. I hope, sir, you have not suffered 
any serious injury. 

Sir C. Not much, ma'am, head a little out of order, 
as we say all owing to the spirit of my leaders 
Greys, madam fine creatures. Your Greys make 
excellent leaders in Opposition coaches. Ah ! my old 
ganger- that-is-to-be, how d'ye do? Don't remember 
me, eh ? 

Mr. Hart. Oh ! yes, sir ; you call yourself Sir 
Charles Canvas. (Madame de Rosier starts, and looks 
earnestly at Sir Charles.) 

Sir C. Call myself! damn the fellow doubts my 
claim, I suppose (aside). 

Mad. de Ros. It cannot surely be the same ! 
(aside.) 

Sir C. I say, my old boy, I have a little job for 
you Do you like jobs ? no getting on without them 
I shall want you, in a day or two, to deliver a letter for 
me to Miss Hartington. 

Mr. Hart. To Miss Harting 

Sir C. Mum I have every reason to suspect that 
little Tory has taken a fancy to me. 

Mr. Hart. To you, sir ! (with contemptuous sur- 
prise). 

Sir C. To me, sir! yes, sir to me, sir to Sir 
Charles Canvas, Bart., M.P., son and heir to the late 
Sir William Canvas, of Hun thorough Hall, Cornwall. 



302 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

Mad. de Ros. It is indeed the same the eldest 
son of my dear friend, Lady Canvas (aside). 

Sir C. And, between ourselves, it is not impossible 
but the measure of an Union might be carried. 
However, say nothing about the matter at present, 
as I am just now candidate in another quarter ; but if 
I don't like the state of the poll, damme but I'll out, 
and be returned Member for Hartington (slapping 
Mr. H. on the back}. 

Mr. Hart. This fellow's impudence is intolerable 
(aside). But are you then so sure, sir, of being ac- 
cepted by Miss Hartington ? 

Sir C. Oh ! no doubt of it women can't refuse. 
They'd never do for the House couldn't say no for 
the lives of them but mum, my old fellow, that's all, 
and call upon me to-morrow at the boarding-house. 

Mr. Hart. I have no doubt, Sir, that the compli- 
ment which you intend Miss Hartington will be felt 
by her exactly as it deserves (significantly) ; and be 
assured, no effort of mine shall be wanting to impress 
her with a proper understanding of its value. [Exit. 

Sir C. Well said, my old boy. (Madame de 
Rosier approaches.) Ask pardon, madam, a little 
secret committee with my honourable friend in frag- 
ments here. 

Mad. de Ros. Not so secret, Sir Charles, as to 
prevent me from discovering that I have the honour of 
receiving under my roof the son of one of my best and 
earliest friends, Lady Canvas. 

Sir C. Oh ! you knew my mother, madam ; an 
excellent woman, as women go, certainly. 

Mad. de Ros. I knew her in Paris, when she was 
married, and was the only friend to whom she entrusted 
it ; we were in the same hotel together when you were 
born. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 303 

Sir C. The devil ! she mistakes me for my eldest 
brother ; I don't quite like this (aside}. You are 
wrong, madam ; my mother was not exactly what you 
call married, you know, till she came to England. 

Mad. de Ros. Pardon me, Sir Charles, I was pre- 
sent at the ceremony. 

Sir C. Present! I'm ruined like a lost Bill- 
negatived, thrown out, and sent to the pastry-cook's 
(aside). Yet stay, I'm safe yet, one witness won't do 
no, no, 'twon't do, madam (turning round to Mad. de 
Rosier, he is caught round the neck by La Fosse, to 
whom, during Sir CSs speech aside, Mad. de Rosier 
had whispered something). 

La Fosse. Ah ! my dear little Master Canvas , 
bless my soul, how vare often I have pinch you little 
ear, when you not dis high, and you squawl and squawl, 
and vish me at de .devil ! 

Sir C. I'm sure I wish you there now with all my 
heart what shall I do ? (aside). 

Mad. de Ros. This faithful old servant, Sir Charles, 
was likewise at your mother's wedding. 

Sir C. And what infernal I say, madam, what 
strange fate has brought you both here ? 

Mad. de Ros. Upon my return to France last year, 
I found that my husband the Comte de Rosier was 
dead, that his money had been all embezzled, and his 
estates confiscated; my dear son Henry (whom you 
may have seen at the library) was the only comfort left 
me, and upon his industry we now depend for our 
humble, yet sufficient maintenance. 

Sir C. So, so, the young emigrant at the library 
I have it (aside). Your son's name, you say, is Henry 
de Rosier ? (takes out his tablets, and writes). 

Mad. de Ros. Yes, sir. 

SirC. Aged? 



304 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

Mad. de Ros. About one-and- twenty. 

Sir C. 'Aged one and twenty middle size fair 
complexion,' (writing). 

La Fosse. Ah de brave homme ! he mean to 
patronage my young master ! 

Sir C. Grlad to have the particulars; must send 
information to the Alien Office immediately. 

Mad. de Ros. For heaven's sake, Sir Charles, what 
is it you mean ? 

Sir C. Your son Henry, madam a very suspicious 
character must be got rid of unpleasant office for 
me but must do my duty. 

Mad. de Ros. My unfortunate boy ! what can he 
have done ? 

Sir C. Nothing overt, as yet, perhaps, but quite 
enough to be suspected of being suspicious. ' Doctor 
Shuffle-bottom and some dowagers of distinction have 
long had their eyes on him, he has been caught laugh- 
ing at a novel of Voltaire's, and has even been seen to 
yawn over a loyal pamphlet of Doctor Shuffle-bottom's 
an incendiary quite ! 

' Mad de Ros. Oh, sir ! I will answer with my life 
that, whatever imprudence my Henry may have been 
guilty of, his heart is in the right ; his heart is always 
in the right. 

' Sir C. Very likely but we politicians have nothing 
to do with the heart must send him off and that 
ugly old sinner there with him.' Shall go now, and 
write to the Alien Office. 

Mad. de Ros. (kneeling). For pity's sake, Sir 
Charles ! by the memory of your dear mother, I entreat 
you. 

Sir C. I have her now (aside). As to that, madam, 
though always rigid in my public duties, yet when so fair 
a petitioner humbly sheiveth, I am as easily moved as 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 305 

the question of adjournment (raises her) and there 
is one condition upon which I consent to let your son 
remain safely behind his counter. 

Mad. de Ros. Name it, sir, name it. 

Sir C. Simply this that you never betray to man, 
woman, or child, the secret of my mother's marriage in 
Paris. 

Mad. de Ros. Though ignorant of your motive, Sir 
Charles, most willingly do I promise (trample with- 
out) and here is my poor Henry himself. 

Sir C. Does he know it ? 

Mad. de Ros. I have never mentioned it to him. 

Sir C. Mum then that's all. 

Enter DE EOSIEK. 

De Ros. I have stolen one moment from business to 
tell my dear mother of my happiness What ! in tears, 
mother ! and Sir Charles Canvas here ? What is the 
meaning of this ? 

Mad. de Ros. Nothing, Henry ; we were merely 

talking of some old (Sir Charles shows the tablets 

secretly to her, and checks her). This gentleman, I 
mean, has met with jan accident at our door, and it has 
alarmed me. 

De Ros. There is some mystery in this, which must 
be explained to me. La Fosse! (La Fosse nods signi- 
ficantly toivards Sir Charles, and exit). Sir Charles ! 
I perceive plainly that your intrusion is the cause of 
this embarrassment, and, notwithstanding my respect 
for your eldest brother, Captain Canvas, whom I have 
the honour to call my friend, and of whose title and 
fortune you have (I will not say how generously) 
possessed yourself 

Mad. de Ros. This then was the motive Oh, 
Henry ! (She is going towards him, when Sir Charles 



3o6 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

seizes her hand, and reads the tablets in an under- 
voice to her.) - 

Sir C. ' Aged twenty-one middle size fair com- 
plexion ' 

De Ros. Come, madam, you must not stay here 
to be insulted. Another time, Sir Charles, I shall 
know the meaning of your conduct. I did think, sir, 
that you modern men of fashion, when coming to a 
domestic sanctuary like this, could leave your arrogance 
at the club, and your vulgarity at the race-ground ; but 
I find that, in the circle of social life, you are as 
misplaced as monkeys in a flower-garden, having just 
strength enough to trample on what is delicate, and 
just wit enough to ruin what is beautiful. 

[Exeunt MAD. DE KOSIER and HENRY. 

Sir C. Hear him! hear him,! That young gentle- 
man has a taste for oratory would cut a figure upon 
a Turnpike Bill. Flatter myself, however, I have 
muzzled the principal witness 'and my brother, a 
careless fellow, will never think of sifting the matter 
when he returns, but pocket the affront, and away to 
sea again.' As to fighting, my young Mr. Emigrant 
(for you seemed to give notice of a motion to that 
effect), before 7 fight, I must consult my constituents, 
as I hold it unpatriotic to do anything without their 
instructions. [Exit. 

SCENE IV. An Antechamber at Lady BAB BLUE'S. 

Lady BAB, and Capt. CANVAS in his disguise, arrang- 
ing the booJcs in a large bookcase. Miss SELWYN 
and DAVY, the latter a little tipsy. 

Lady B. Come hither, you stupid Davy, and assist 
this young man to arrange the books. Foh, fellow! 
your breath smells like hydrogen. 



M.F., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 307 

Davy. Hydergin gin gin (hiccups) Ecod, so it 
was gin, sure enough. How well the old toad knows 
the smell of it ! (aside). 

Lady B. (to Davy). Here, put up these two 
volumes of Sallust. That is the Jugurthine, and that 
the Cataline. 

Davy, (spelling the letters on the back). T, 0, M, 
Tom, C, A, T, Cat, Tom Cat. Come, I guess now, that's 
something deuced comical, (spells the other). T, O, M., 
J, U, Gr, Tom's Jug. Ah ! that's the laming, after 
all. 

Capt. C. One word with her will be sufficient. 
Miss Selwyn ! Miss Selwyn ! (apart to Miss S.). 

Miss S. Grood Heavens! is it possible? Captain 
Canvas ! 

Capt. C. Be not alarmed, madam I come not to 
interrupt your happiness, by disputing my brother's 
claim to that inheritance, which Miss Selwyn is so 
worthy and so willing to share with him I come 
merely to return this picture into your hands, and 
(what I cannot think you will regret) to bid you fare- 
well for ever ! [He returns to the bookcase. 

Miss S. What can he mean ? ' Worthy and willing 
to share his brother's fortune!' My picture, too, re- 
turned! (opens it) Yet no no can I believe my 
eyes ? It is it is Miss Hartington. Oh ! this accounts 
for her confusion when I mentioned his name, her 
sighs when she acknowledged that she knew him. 
False, cruel man! to insult me thus with the display of 
her love-gifts. But I'll Oh ! that his brother were 
here now I could even do my heart a violence to be 
revenged of him. 

Lady B. Why, what are you about, young man ? 
(to Capt. Canvas, who has been employed at the book- 
case). You are mixing up my science with all sorts of 

x 2 



308 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

rubbish. Here's Thoughts upon Gravity on the same 
shelf with Broad Grins ; and as I live ! Sir Isaac 
Newton in the corner with Betsy Thoughtless! 

Enter Sir CHARLES. 

Sir C. Oh, dear ladies ! I have had the saddest 
tumble off my dicky exactly such as happened to me 
last spring you recollect immediately after the snows 
and the Parliament had dissolved away, and the new 
Ministers were just budding into patronage and 
majorities. 

Miss S. Dear Sir Charles, you alarm me beyond 
expression (affecting anxiety about him). 

Sir C. ' Dear Sir Charles ! ' Ho ! ho ! She begins 
to trim, I find (aside). 

Capt. C. (behind). Perfidious girl ! 

Lady B. and Miss S. (on each side of Sir C.). No 
material hurt, I hope ? 

Sir (7. Not much head a little discomposed but 
it was this that saved me (striking the wown of his 
hat). The crown is the best friend to us M.Ps., after 
all. But don't be alarmed, ladies, I am not so ill but 
that I shall be able to attend you to the lottery at the 
library ; and afterwards, if you will allow me, to Miss 
Hartington's card-party. 

FINALE TO THE SECOND ACT. 

Lady BAB BLUE, Miss SELWYN, Captain CANVAS, ] Sir 
C. CANVAS, and DAVY. 

Capt. C. The last gleam of hope is vanish'd now, 
Misery's night surrounds me. 

/ 

1 Captain Canvas, during this Finale, must keep as far back as 
possible and appear carefully to avoid the eyes of Sir Charles. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 309 

Davy. I could read mighty well, if they'd j ust show me how, 

But this printing like quite confounds me. 
Miss S. The pain in your head, is it better ? oh tell. 
Capt. C. The pain in my heart who can tell $ 
Sir C. C. Pretty well it may swell. 
Davy. I can spell very well F, E, double L. 

Miss S. Think, if aught should harm thee, 

How it would alarm me. 
Capt. C. Patience ! arm me, 

Let not anger warm me. 
Miss S. How I should deplore thee ! 

Tenderly weep o'er thee ! 
Capt. C. None will e'er adore thee 

With the love / bore thee : 

Oh ! -happier, happier he, 

Whose heart is cold to thee. 
Miss S. 




Ladv B. Oh ! ha PP^' ha PP y we > 
jj j Thy safe return to see. 

Sir C. C. I'm happy, ma'am, to see 
Your kind concern for me. 

Can Falsehood then boast of her power to destroy, 
And not even blush o'er the ruins of joy? 
Can hearts leave the load-star they used to obey, 
And not even tremble in turning astray ? 
(DAVY, who lias been fixing books upon the shelves, 
lets a large parcel of them , at this moment, fall 
about his ears.) 
Davy. Dang it ! what a clatter ! 

How my head they batter ! 
Capt. C. Booby ! what's the matter ? 
How the books you scatter ! 
Lady B. See ! you awkward lout, 

My ancients thrown about ; 
My wits all tumbling from above ! 
Davy. If larning be about 

As hard inside as out, 
'Twould soon get thro' my skull, by Jove ! 



3io M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

Capt. C. \ 

& I Farewell farewell to hope, joy, and love ! 
MissH. } 

END OF THE SECOND ACT. 



ACT III. 
SCENE.- -The Circulating Library. 

Lady BAB BLUE, Sir CHARLES CANVAS, Miss SELWYN, 
Miss HARTINGTON, SUSAN, and a motley group of 
persons are discovered attending the drawing of 
a lottery, which LEATHERHEAD is busied about 
behind the counter. Various prizes are lying 
upon the counter. 

SONG, EECITATIVE, DUET, CHORUS, &c. 

SONG. 1 SUSAN. 

A Lottery, a Lottery, 
In Cupid's court there used to be, 
Two roguish eyes 
The highest prize 
In Cupid's scheming Lottery ; 
And kisses too, 
As good as new, 

Which were not very hard to win, 
For he, who won 
The eyes of fun, 
Was sure to have the kisses in. 
Chor. A Lottery, &c. 

This Lottery, this Lottery, 
In Cupid's court went merrily, 

1 Vol. ix. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 311 

And Cupid play'd 

A Jewish trade 
In thin his scheming Lottery ! 

For hearts, I'm told, 

In shares he sold 
To many a fond believing drone, 

And cut the hearts 

In sixteen parts 
So well, each thought the whole his own ! 

Ghor. A Lottery, a Lottery, 

In Cupid's court there used to be, 

Two roguish eyes 

The highest prize, 
In Cupid's scheming Lottery. 

KECITATIVE and SONGK LEATHERHEAD. 

Ladies and Gentlemen Gentlemen and Ladies Go not to 

Cupid's court ; 
For (whatever the young woman may say) 'tis a place of very 

bad resort. 

AIK. 

But mine is the Lottery hasten to me ; 
Here's scissors and satires, as sharp as can be : 
Here's a drawing of Cork here's a cork-screw for wine, 
Here are pills for the cough and here's Gibbon's ' Decline ; ' 
Here's a bright carving-knife here's a learned Review 
Here's an Essay on Marriage, and here's a Cuckoo. 



CHOEUS. 

Our Lottery our Lottery 

Ye youths and maidens, come to me ! 

'Tis ne'er too late 

To try your fate 
In this our lucky Lottery. 



312 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

Leath. Thanks, ladies and gentlemen, for your at- 
tendance this evening ; hope for your patronage, 
madam (to Lady Bab) Have everything in your way 
6 that has appeared since Nebechudnezzar's work upon 
Grasses Clever book that, ma'am. 

' Lady Bab. I cannot say that I have ever seen it. 

' Leath. 'Pon my soul, nor I ' (aside). Have got a 
new printing press, ma'am ; would be glad to have some 
of your Flights of Fancy. Wish you could be prevailed 
upon to try your hand at a battle. Wonderful taste 
for battles now, ma'am. 

Lady B. No wonder, sir, when those indulgent 
critics, the Park guns, stand always ready to report the 
merits of such performances. 

Leath. Ha! ha! ha! Very sharp, ma'am, very sharp. 
If you please to step this way, ma'am, I'll give you a 
sight of my typographicals. [They retire. 

Miss Hart. I look in vain for De Eosier. What 
can be the meaning of his absence? (aside). 

Sir. C. (who is all this time paying his court to 
Miss Selwyn, and is repulsed by her in all his 
advances). Nay, my dear Miss Selwyn, ' you change 
sides as quick as an Union Member;' just now at your 
own house you were so kind to me ! I declare it quite 
intoxicated me. 

Miss S. Did I intoxicate you, Sir Charles ? The 
Spartans, too, occasionally made their slaves drunk ; but 
'twas from anything but love for them, I assure you. 

Sir C. What a tongue she has ! But 111 cough her 
down when we're married (aside). 

Miss Hart. I suppose, Sir Charles, you know that 
your brother is arrived. 

Sir C. My brother ! impossible madam impos- 
sible. He would not leave his ship to be made First 
Lord of the Treasury. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 313 

Miss Hart. But to be made Lord of Love's Treasury! 
(looking archly at Miss Selwyn, and then addressing 
her). Come, my dear, you can tell us, perhaps, whether 
Captain Canvas is arrived. 

Miss S. How insultingly she triumphs over me ! 
(aside). Eeally, Miss Hartington, Time makes such 
changes in mind as well as features, that it is possible 
I may have seen Captain Canvas without being able to 
persuade myself that it was the same I had known 
formerly. 

Miss Hart. I'll send to the hotels to inquire after 
him. Perhaps he may be prevailed upon to join our 
card-party this evening. Sir Charles, you have no 
objection to see your brother at my house ? 

Sir C. Me, madam ! objection, madam! (confused). 
Afraid to meet the eyes of my brother ! Damned bad 
sign symptoms of a rotten Borough here, I fear (lays 
his hand on his heart)mu$t brazen it out though (aside). 
Oh no, Miss Hartington, not the least objection. My 
brother is well aware of the hopelessness of his claims, 
and will be happy, of course, to find that the title, 
though it has slipped off the higher branch, has settled 
upon such a promising twig as your humble servant. 

Miss Hart. Oh ! very well. Susan ! (beckons Susan, 
and exit with her). 

Lady Bab (coming forward with Leatherhead, 
and giving him a letter). Y ou will be amused and 
edified by that letter 'tis from my friend, Doctor 
O'Jargon, the great Irish chemist, and you may read it 
at your leisure. 

Leath. Ma'am, you do me honour. 

Lady Bab. Come hither, niece (to Miss Selwyn) ; 
I want to speak with you upon a matter of much 
importance to me. 



314 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

Miss S. This eternal marriage with Sir Charles! 
(aside). 

Lady Bab. I want to ask your advice upon a grand 
literary scheme I have in view. 

Miss S. Heaven be praised ! Even her literature is 
a relief (aside). 

Lady Bab. You must know I have been, for some 
time past, employed in writing a chemical poem upon 
Sal Ammoniac. 

Miss S. Upon sal ammoniac ? 

Lady Bab. Yes, my dear, a poem upon sal ammo- 
niac in which, under the name of the Loves of Ammo- 
nia, I have personified this interesting alkali, and 
described very tenderly all the various experiments 
that have been tried on her. 

Miss S. This is what has been called f enlisting 
poetry under the banners of science,' dear aunt. 

Lady Bab. Exactly so. And now look on that 
venerable Chamberlain of the Muses there. 

Leath. What the devil are they staring at me for ? 
(aside). 

Lady Bab. That man, humble as he stands there- 
unconscious, as yet, of the glory that is intended him 
that man shall I select for the high honour of introduc- 
ing my Ammonia to the literary world. 

Miss S. Happy man ! 

Lady Bab. And I will go home this instant and 
write him such an epistle on the subject as will electrify 
him. 

Miss S. I have no doubt it will. 

Lady Bab. Sir Charles I had nearly forgot but 
there is a paper which I have had in my pocket for you 
all day (giving him a letter). It concerns the subject 
nearest your heart. Farewell we meet at Miss Har- 
tington's assembly. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 315 

Leath. Give me leave, my lady (showing her out). 

Lady Bab (to Leath.). Man! man! thou little 
knowest the honour and glory to which thou wilt be 
sublimated. 

[Exit LADY BAB, LEATHERHEAD showing her off. 

Sir C. Let's see what the old lady has given me 
here (reads) ' Most scientific Madam ! ' Hey-day ! 
'tis a letter, addressed to herself, and signed Cornelius 
0' Jargon, Professor of Chemistry. ' Most scientific 
Madam ! I need not tell your ladyship that my illus- 
trious counti^yman, the Honourable Mr. Boyle, was 
the father of Chemistry, and brother to the Earl of 
Cork.' What the devil have I to do with the father 
and uncles of Chemistry ? I, that am in such a hopeful 
genealogical way myself ! And this, she said, was ' the 
subject nearest my heart ! ' (tearing the letter). What's 
to be done ? If my brother is arrived, and Madame de 
Rosier should find out that my threats against her son 
were mere bluster, 'tis all over with me. What shall I 
do? I'll try bribery, I will. They are poor, and a 
bribe will certainly stop their mouths. 'Besides, it 
will keep my hand in, and make me a more saleable 
article myself in future,' * for nothing breaks a man in 
for taking bribes so effectually as giving them. [Exit. 

Miss 8. (who had been occupied among the books 
at the back of the stage). Alas ! who can wonder at the 
choice I have made ? Even had Captain Canvas no 
other qualities to adorn him, the very fame of his 
heroism would be sufficient to interest me. For we 
women, the simplest and tenderest of us, love to fly 
about a blaze of celebrity, even though we receive but 
little warmth from it ; and the sage and the hero are sure 
of us, whenever they condescend to be our suitors. Not 

1 I forget the words that are substituted for these in represen- 
tation. 



3i6 M.F., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

that we have much concern with either their valour or 
their wisdom, for our pride is to produce the very 
reverse of those qualities which we admire in them ; to 
see the orator mute, the hero humbled, and the philo- 
sopher bewildered. 

SONG-. 1 Miss SELWYN. 

Oh ! think, when a hero is sighing, 

What danger in such an adorer ! 
What woman can dream of denying 

The hand that lays laurels before her ? 
No heart is so guarded around, 

But the smile of a victor will take it ; 
No bosom can slumber so sound, 

But the trumpet of glory will wake it. 

Love sometimes is given to sleeping, 

And woe to the heart that allows him ! 
For, ah ! neither smiling nor weeping 

Have power, at those moments, to rouse him. 
But, though he were sleeping so fast, 

That the life almost seem'd to forsake him, 
Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast 

From the trumpet of glory would wake him ! 

SCENE II. The Outside of the Circulating Library. 

Enter LEATHERHEAD (bowing off, as if returned from 
seeing the ladies to their carriage). 

Leath. Charming notion she has of books ! and of 
booksellers too, I flatter myself. She wouldn't have been 
half so civil to me, though, if my fine French shopman 
had been in the way. That fellow's young impudent 
face took off all the attention of the women from me. 
But I've got rid of him, packed him off, ' and he may 
1 Vol. ix. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 317 

now starve like a wit and a gentleman, as he pretends 
to be ' (takes out the letter Lady BAB gave him). Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! Bless her old tasty heart ! Only think of 
her giving me a letter from an Irish chemist and drug- 
gist to amuse myself with. Let's see (putting on his 
spectacles). 

SUSAN enters from behind. 

Susan. I can't think what has become of Mr. de 
Rosy. My poor mistress was quite in a fright at not 
seeing him here. Oh ! there's the old grumpus him- 
self 

Leath. (reads). ' / am determined that you shall 
marry my niece.' 1 Eh ! what ! Impossible it's a 
mistake. ' / am determined that you shall marry my 
niece. The girVs heart is set against it ' Oh ! of 
course ; ' but, like the copper and zinc in a voltaic 
battery, the more negative she becomes, the more posi- 
tive she'll find me. Come early this evening to Miss 
HARTINGTON'S, and all shall be settled. 1 Oh! 'tis a 
mistake a mistake. She gave me the wrong letter. 
Susan. Pray, sir, may Mr. de Rosy be in the shop ? 
Leath. No, young woman, he's packed off,- gone to 
(turning away from her, wholly occupied with the 
subject of the letter) marry Miss Selwyn, a rich 
heiress ! Oh, it's a hoax, a mere hoax. 

Susan. So it is a hoax indeed, if he told you he 
was going to marry any such thing. La ! sir, he is not 
one of your marrying sort. 

Leath. And yet she said something about honour 
and glory that were in store for me 

Susan. But in earnest, good Mr. Leatherhead, what 
is become of the young man ? 

Leath. Gone to the dogs, I tell you, kicked into the 
streets. Don't perplex me about him. 



3i8 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

Susan. Ah ! you hard-hearted old monster ! But 
I will pester you. Kicked into the streets ! Well, in 
spite of the crockery duchess, I declare I could almost 
cry for him. And has the poor dear young man, then, 
nothing to live upon ? 

Leath. (reading}. ' Copper and zinc. 1 

Susan. Copper ! Mercy on me ! I'll go tell my 
mistress this instant. Who would have thought it ? 

[Going out, is met by DAVY. 

Davy. Why, Susan, how plump you come up again 
a body ! I say (apart to Tier), just wait a minute or 
two here, now do'ee : I ha' gotten a letter to gie to the 
old book chap here, and then I have something you 
know (cunningly} I have, indeed : come, now do'ee 
wait, good girl. I say, Mr. Leatherhead, here be a 
letter for you from Lady Bab Blue. 

Leath. What ! another letter ! (anxiously}. 

Davy. Ah ! you may well say another and another. 
Nothing but write, write, and them pistles fas she calls 
them) going off from morning till night. Ecod, she 
spells such a power of words in the day, that I only 
wonder how the poor old alphabet holds out with 
her. 

Leath. Bless me ! I'm in such a fluster I can hardly 
read a line (reads}. ' Dear Sir ! I have made up my 
mind completely since I saw you, and my Ammonia, 
that treasure for which so many proposals have been 
made, shall be put immediately into your hands' 
Ammonia her niece's name I shall go wild. c Her 
beauties have hitherto been the delight only of a 
private circle; but I have no doubt that upon her 
appearance in public she will draw the whole world 
to your shop.' Oh I damn the shop ; I'll shut that up 
immediately ; I'll throw my wig at the stars ; I'll 
(capering about). 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 319 

Davy. Why, the old chap is beside himself, for 
sartain. 

Leath. ' You, doubtless, are well acquainted with 
the history of this volatile creature? Volatile ! oh ! 
no matter for that : this volatile creature, Ammonia, 
vulgarly called Sal by the apothecaries.' Her niece 
called Sal by the apothecaries ! What the devil does 
she mean ? Oh ; I suppose a pet name which her 
friend the Irish druggist has for her ; but Til always 
call her Ammonia, Ammonia, my dear Ammonia (throws 
his arms round Susan). 

Susan. La ! Mr. Bookseller, one would think you 
want me for an apprentice, you bind me so fast to 
you 

Leath. Let me see what more : ' As I can imagine 
your impatience to possess this treasure, call upon 
me this evening at Miss Harrington's, and it shall be 
made your own. 1 Just what she said in the other 
note. Yes, yes, I'll go, I'll go (parades the stage 
consequentially). Oh, Leatherhead ! Leatherhead ! thou 
wert born under a lucky asterisk ! Show me a brother 
type out of Paternoster Row that could smuggle him- 
self into the copyright of an heiress of two-and-twenty 
so neatly ! 

Davy. Well I'll be shot if there isn't something in 
this laming that turns every parson's head that's at all 
concarn'd with it, and I believe what the politician at the 
ale-house said was true, that the war, and the taxes, and 
the rest of the mischief, all comes of your devilish 
Greek and Latin. I say, Mr. Leatherhead, what 
answer am I to take back to my lady ? 

Leath. Answer ? Tell her that I'm all rapture and 
astonishment that I am stark staring with wonder, 
like three notes of admiration and that I'll marry 
her niece in the twinkling of a semi-colon. 



320 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

Davy. Marry her what ? 

Leath. Marry her what ? Her niece, puppy my 
volatile, but valuable Ammonia ! (half aside). 

Davy. What! you? 

Susan. What! you? (both laughing at him) . 

Leath. Yes, I, sir yes, I, ma'am What the devil 
are you laughing at ? (strutting from one to the 
other.) 

LAUGHING TEIO. 
SUSAN, DAVY, and LEATHERHEAD. 

Leath. Girl, dost thou know me ? 

Sus. & Dav. Oh ! what a wooer ! 
Leath. Slave ! thou'rt below me ! 

Sus. & Dav. This wig will undo her. 
Leath. Oh ! curse your grinning ! 

Sus. & Dav. This lock so winning ! 
Leath. Ma'am, if you giggle thus, 

And treat my wig ill thus, 

I'll let you shortly know who am I. 
Sus. & Dav. A handsome lover this ! 
Leath. You sha'n't get over this; 

Sus. & Dav. This laugh will end me quite : 
Leath. Pray heaven send it might ! 

Sus. & Dav. Ho, ha, ha, hah ! hah, ha ! 

How the fool makes me laugh ! 

Oh ! I shall die ! 

Leath. But you shall weep for this fun by-and-by. 

[Exeunt severally. 

SCENE III. MADAME DE HOSIER'S Cottage. 
Enter DE EOSIER and LA FOSSE. 

La Fosse. Ah ! de barbare ! vat ! he turn you out 
vidout one penny ! 



MP., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 321 

De Ros. Yes, La Fosse, dismissed me from his 
paltry service, without even a hint at the remuneration 
which he agreed to give me, and I would starve sooner 
than ask him. 

La Fosse. Ah ! oui, starve yourself a la bonne 
heure But your poor moder ! 

De Ros. Yes, yes, my mother ! Something must 
be done instantly ; the little sum we brought with us 
hither is exhausted, and Heaven only knows whither I 
shall now turn for a supply. 

La Fosse (looking at his snuff-box.) Ah, you 
little snuff-box! I have hold fast by you long time, 
when all my oder little articles were pressed into de 
service of this grumbling tyran here (hand on the sto- 
mach) I did tink de conscription would come to you 
at last. 

De Ros. What do you say, La Fosse ? 

La Fosse. Indeed, I vas cracking joke bad enough, 
monsieur, upon my poor old tabatiere here, and I vil 
go dis moment to the jeweller's, and try what I can 
make of him. 

De Ros. To the jeweller's ? 

La Fosse. Oui, sare, to sell this little box, which 
your good father gave me, and make the best use of his 
present by comforting his vife and child. 

De Ros. My kind old man ! I have never treated 
you as you deserved, and so it is, alas ! with many humble 
hearts, neglected, perhaps slighted, during our pros- 
perous moments, but which, when the darkness of 
adversity arrives, come forth like the sweet night- 
plant, and reproach us only by the fragrance they 
breathe over our path, for the rudeness, with which we 
have, perhaps, trodden down their leaves in the sun- 
shine. Keep my father's present, old man ; I will not 
hear of your parting with it. 

y 



322 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

La Fosse. Pardon, monsieur, but if I continue tak- 
ing snuff out of silver, while my friend is in want of 
von shilling, may my gentleman -like rappee be turned 
into blackguard, and every pinch go the wrong way. 

-De Ros. My faithful La Fosse ! But here comes 
my mother ; she must not know the extent of our dis- 
tresses. Women should be like those temples of old, 
from which words of ill omen were carefully kept 
away. 

Enter MADAME DE KOSIER. 

Mad. de Ros. M} r dear Henry ! what is to become 
of us? 

De Ros. Become of us ? oh ! everything that is good 
and happy. 

Mad. de Ros. You are always so sanguine, Henry ! 

De Ros. And why should I not, dearest mother ? I 
have hitherto steered so safely by the star of Heaven's 
providence, that even while 'tis clouded, I trust to its 
guidance cheerfully ! 

La Fosse. Ah ! dat is brave boy ! and here is to your 
good health (taldng a pinch of snuff \ A votre sante, 
mon petit bon homme ! 

Mad. de Ros. But what is your present plan ? 

De Ros. The money I am to receive from old 
Leatherhead will support us during my short interval 
of idleness, and I know a thousand situations, in which 
willing industry, like mine, is sure to meet with em- 
ployment. In a soil like this, which liberty has ferti- 
lised, the very weakest shoots of talent thrive and 
nourish ! 

SONG. 1 DE EOSIER. 

Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth, 
. And dear to the heart her remembrance remains, 
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth, 
And sad the remembrance that slavery stains. 

1 Reprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 394. 



M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 323 

Oh thou ! who wert bom in the cot of the peasant, 

But diest of languor in Luxury's dome, 
Our vision, when absent our glory, when present, - 

Where thou art, Liberty ! there is my home. 

Farewell to the land where in childhood I wander'd ! 

In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave ! 
Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered, 

And Fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. 
But hail to thee, Albion ! who meet'st the commotion 

Of Europe, as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam ; 
With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, 

Hail, Temple of Liberty ! thou art my home. 

[Exit. 

Mad, de Ros. Alas ! La Fosse, he little knows the 
cruel perplexity in which I am placed the injured son 
of Lady Canvas is, I find, his friend ; and if iny Henry 
were aware of our powers of righting him, his generous 
nature would forget every personal consideration, and 
expose him to all the enmity with which that unfeeling 
Sir Charles threatened him. 

La Fosse, (who has been all this time in a reverie 
about his snuff-box, and not attending to her.) I do 
not like to lose my good rappee, either. 

Mad. de Eos. Oh ! that we had the means of flying 
from this unlucky place, where every thing conspires to 
perplex and agitate me. 

La Fosse. If I could find de little something to 
put it in (aside). 

Mad. de Ros. What are you meditating, La Fosse ? 
Does anything occur to you ? 

La Fosse. Oui, my lady, it occur to me that my 
rappee have not de true relish out of silver. 

Mad. de Ros. (turning away). Trifling old man ! 

La Fosse. And if I could find something (looking 
round). Ah ! I have de thought. My lady ! where did 

r 2 



324 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 

you put that little bag the old beggarman did give you 
to-day ? 

Mad. de Ros. I know not where I threw it, and I 
must say, La Fosse, that, painfully occupied as my mind 
is, it is cruel to trifle with me thus (sits down, much 
agitated). 

La Fosse (still looking about). Pardon, my lady. 
Ah ! 3e voila (finds it). Come here, you little bag, I 
vil do you an honneur you little dream of (starts and 
lets the bag fall). Diable ! vat is I see ? 

Mad. de Ros. Why do you start, La Fosse ? 

La Fosse. Start ? Pardi, I have seen the ghost of a 
fifty-pound note, looking as fresh and alive as if he just 
walk out of Threadneedle Street. 

Mad. de Ros. What do you mean ? 

La Fosse. It cannot be real, mais, I will touch 
(takes up the note). By gar, it is as substantial a fifty 
as ever Monsieur Henri Hase stood godfather for (shows 
it to her). 

Mad. de Ros. All-blessing Providence ! this is thy 
agency. Fly, La Fosse, seek your master, and tell him 
what kind Heaven has sent us. 

La Fosse. I will, my lady ; and I will pray by the 
way, that every poor and honest fellow may find as 
lucky a bag to put his tabac in. [Exit. 

Mad. de Ros. Mysterious stranger ! Now I feel the 
meaning of his words. Thou art, indeed, a medicine 
for many ills (addressi7ig the money), blest, if thou wert 
not the cause of still more ; but oh ! how many a heart 
thou corruptest, for the very few to which thou givest 
comfort ! [Exit. 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 32$ 

SCENE IV. The Street. 
Enter Sir CHARLES CANVAS, dressed for the Evening. 

Sir C. 'Tis too true this brother of mine is arrived. 
Yes, yes, he thinks to throw me out comes to petition 
against the sitting member, but it won't do : he'll find 
me as sedentary as the Long Parliament (looking 
out). Isn't that my ragged friend coming this way ? 
The very fellow to manage the bribery business for me. 
Nothing like an agent a middle-man upon these oc- 
casions, for your bribe ought never to descend from too 
great a height, but be let down easily into the pocket. 

Enter Mr. HARTJNGTON. 

Ah ; how do you do, old boy ? how d'ye do ? The very 
man I wanted to meet. 

Mr. Hart. This everlasting fool (aside). 

Sir C. I dare say now, my friend, old Hartington 
has so often employed you as a sort of journeyman in 
his works of charity, that your hand falls as natu- 
rally into a giving attitude as that of a physician into 
a taking one. 

Mr. Hart. The art of giving, sir, is not so very 
easily learned. It requires so much less exertion of 
thought to throw away than to give, that no wonder 
this short cut to a reputation for generosity should be 
generally preferred by the indolent and fashionable. 

Sir C. A plague on this fellow's moral tongue. 
What an excellent dinner-bell 'twould make in the 
House ! (aside). But, I say, my old fellow, my reason 
for asking is, that I have a little charitable job upon 
hands myself, which must be managed, you know, in a 



326 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

delicate way, and in which I mean to employ you as 
my proxy. 

Mr. Hart. I have wronged him then, and coxcombs 
may have hearts (aside). 

Sir C. You know the cottage where I met you to- 
day : fine woman that ! rather passee, to be sure ; and 
so is her purse, I fear exchequer low, you understand 
me. 

Mr. Hart. She is poor, sir, but evidently has been 
otherwise ; and of all the garbs in Poverty's wardrobe, 
the faded mantle of former prosperity is the most 
melancholy ! 

Sir C. So it is quite like a collar of last year's cut 
exactly, and I have, therefore, resolved to settle a small 
annuity upon that lady for her life. 

Mr. Hart. Generous young man ! what disinterested 
benevolence ! 

Sir C. You shall go this instant and settle the 
matter with her : all I ask in return is that she will 
(to-night, if possible) pack up all her moveables, not 
forgetting the old black-muzzled Frenchman, and be 
off to some remote corner of the island, where even the 
Speaker's warrant can't reach her. 

Mr. Hart. But wherefore this strange condition, 
Sir Charles ? 

Sir C. Why, you must know that respectable lady 
has a little secret of mine in her custody ; and as 
women make but tender-hearted gaolers, I am afraid 
she might let it escape some fine morning or other. 

Mr. Hart. Ha ! all is not right here (aside). Cer- 
tainly, Sir Charles I shall, with all my heart, nego- 
tiate this business for you; but it is necessary, of 
course, that I should be better acquainted with the 
particulars. 

Sir C. True, and the fact is (remember the Gangers' 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 327 

List, old boy,) the fact is, I have just come into a 
large fortune, which my eldest brother most incon- 
veniently thinks he has a right to, and this lady and 
her servant are in possession of certain circumstances 
which um in short, they must be got out of the 
way you understand me. 

Mr. Hart. I understand you now (warmly), though 
weak enough at first to believe that Selfishness could, 
for an instant, turn from her own monstrous idol, to 
let fall, even by chance, one pure offering on the altar 
of Benevolence ! 

Sir C. Heyday ! here are heroics ! why, what the 
devil do you mean, rny old speechifier ? 

Mr. Hart. I mean, fool ! that your own weak tongue 
has betrayed to me the whole trumpery tissue of your 
base, unnatural machinations, which if I do not unravel 
to their last thread before I sleep, may my pillow never 
be blessed with the bright consciousness of having done 
what is right before man and heaven ! 

Sir C. Mr. Hartington, fellow, shall know of this 
insolence. 

* Mr. Hart. Mr. Hartington, sir, despises, as J do, 
the man, however highly placed, who depends upon the 
venality of others for the support of his own injustice, 
and whose purse, like packages from an infected country, 
is never opened but to spread contamination around it ! 

Sir C. Why, thou pauper ! thou old ragamuffin ! 
that look'st like a torn-up Act of Insolvency, how 
darest thou speak thus to a man of family and a 
Senator ? Venture but to breathe another syllable in 
this style, and I'll show you such a specimen of the 
accomplishments of a gentleman as shall (advancing 
close to Mr. Hartington in a boxing attitude, when 
De Rosier, who has entered behind during this last 



328 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

speech, steps between them, and turns away Sir (7.'s 
arm). 

De Ros. Hold, sir ! Is this your bravery ? 'Twas 
but just now I found you insulting a woman, and now 
I iind your valour up in arms against a poor defenceless 
old man ! Gro go I said that you should account to 
me for your conduct; but there are persons, Sir 
Charles, who, like insects that lose their sting in wound- 
ing, become too contemptible for our resentment, even 
in the very act of offending us. 

Sir C. Was there ever an M.P. so treated ? If this 
is not a breach of privilege, then is the Lex Parlia- 
menti a mere flourish a flim-flam ! Damme I'll send 
them both to the Tower (aside). 

Mr. Hart. Your pretensions, sir 

Sir C. Order ! order ! spoke twice spoke tivice 
Curse me if I stay any longer to be harangued by this 
brace of orators. Better get off with a whole skin, though 
(aside). Gentlemen, my sedan-chair is in waiting to 
take me to Miss Hartington's, where if you, sir, have 
anything further to say to me (advancing stoutly to 
De Rosier), you will find me all the evening Safe 
enough in that daren't show his nose there (aside). 

Mr. Hart. One word before 

Sir C. No no you'll excuse me, your attacks 
upon me already have been so very much out of order 
that they force me to throw myself on the protection of 
the Chairman Chair ! Chair ! Chair ! 

[Exit, calling his chair. 

Mr. Hart. This conspiracy must be sifted to the 
bottom. The lady of the cottage shall come to my 
house this evening. Young gentleman, I thank you 
for your interference ; and I pray you, let me know to 
whom I am indebted for it. 

De Ros. To one as penniless as yourself, old man ! 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 329 

Mr. Hart. Another claim upon me I Kind heaven ! 
what luck thou hast thrown in my heart's way since 
morning ! (aside). And may I ask, sir, whither you 
were now going ? 

De Ros. To any place but home, ( there poverty 
awaits me, and the forced smile, which those we love 
put on, when they would hide their wants and sorrows 
from us.' 

Mr. Hart. Come then with me, and share my 
humble meal. 

De Ros. What, thine, poor man ! no no yet 
False pride ! thou struggles! now, but I will tame thee 
(aside). Yes willingly, my friend, most willingly, and 
the more rude our fare, the truer foretaste it may give 
of the hard lot that heaven prepares for me. 

Mr. Hart. Come, then, and the first toast over our 
scanty beverage shall be, ' May the blessing sent from 
the poor man's meal be always the sweetener of the 
cup at the rich man's banquet ! ' [Exeunt. 



SCENE V. An Antechamber at Mr. HAETINGTON'S. 

Enter LEATHERHEAD. 

Leath. Not come yet ! how my old heart beats ! I 
think this suit of my friend the poet's does charmingly 
(admiring his dress) binding remarkably neat 
frontispiece (putting his hand to his face) rather worn 
out, I confess, but when wdl gilt by the heiress's gold, 
why, a tolerable good family copy of ' the Whole Duty 
of Man.' Hist ! here comes the old lady. What shall 
I be doing ? looking over the books ? no curse it 
that's too much of the shop. She shall find me in 
raptures over the last letter she sent me (reads it with 
ridiculous gesticulations}. 



330 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

Enter Lady BAB. 

Lady Bab. Ay there he is happy man ! quite 
saturated with the idea of getting my MS. into his 
hands. T perceive, Mr. Leatherhead, that you are 
pleased with the thoughts of possessing my Am- 
monia. 

Leath. Pleased, ma'am ? I am astonished, ma'am 
it has made me wild, ma'am turned me upside down, 
like a Hebrew spelling-book, ma'am. 

Lady Bab. I knew the effect it would have upon 
him (aside). You will find, I trust, sir, that notwith- 
standing the volatility of my subject, and the various 
philosophic amours in which Ammonia is engaged (he 
starts), I have taken care that no improper warmth 
should appear upon the surface, but that the little of 
that nature which does exist, should be what we 
chemists call latent heat. 

Leath. Ay, true, your ladyship mentioned in your 
letter that she was a little volatile, but, bless your 
heart ! that is of no sort of consequence, it will only make 
herself and me the more fashionable. 

Lady Bab. You are not perhaps aware, Mr. Leather- 
head, of the discoveries that have lately been made 
respecting Ammonia. 

Leath. Discoveries ! oh no here comes the secret 
of my getting her some faux-pas of Miss's, I suppose 
(aside). Why no my lady, I am not though I con- 
fess when you said the philosophers were about her, I 
did feel a little alarm, for your philosopher, my lady, is 
a devilish dangerous sort of fellow. 

Lady Bab. Oh ! not at all dangerous, except when 
an explosion takes place. 

Leath. Mercy on me ! the morals of your women 
of quality ! (aside). But, with submission, my lady, 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 331 

what may the discoveries be that have lately been 
made about Miss Ammonia ? 

Lady Bab. Miss Ammonia ! how well he keeps up 
the personification ! (aside). It has been found that a 
lively, electric spark 

Leath. A spark ! ay I guessed how it was (aside). 

Lady Bab. Has produced a very interesting effect 
upon Ammonia. 

Leaih. I don't doubt it (aside). And pray, my 
lady, where did this lively spark come from ? 

Lady Bab. From the battery, sir. 

Leath. From the battery, ay ! some young artillery 
officer, I suppose. But it can't be helped second-hand 
book a blot or two on the cover but high-priced in 
the catalogue so better for me than a new one (aside). 

Lady Bab. What do you think the world will say 
of it? 

Leath. Say of it, my lady ! Ah, I dare say they'll be 
severe enough upon it. 

Lady Bab. Nay, there I differ with you. To 
expose anything so delicately brilliant to the rigours of 
criticism, would be what is called putting a rainbow 
into a crucible ! 

Leath. Well, I hope not, but I say, my lady, I think 
I have some reason to expect that, in the money 
arrangements between us 

Lady Bab. Well, sir ? 

Leath. Why, that some additional consideration 
will be made to me for the little flaw in Miss's 
character 

Lady Bab. Flaw, sir ! give me leave to tell you, sir, 
that the character of Ammonia has been kept up from 
beginning to end. 

Leath. Oh, I dare say, pains enough taken to keep 
it up, but patching seldom does, and you confess your- 



332 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

self that your niece is rather you know (putting his 
finger to his nose). 

Lady Bab. My niece, man ; what do you mean ? 

Leath. Oh ! I don't mean to say that it makes any 
difference, but you own yourself that your niece has 
been rather a comical sort of a young lady. 

Lady Bab. My niece comical! I am thunder- 
struck : explain yourself, dotard, this instant. 

Leath. Lord bless your ladyship's heart, don't be in 
a passion, for, notwithstanding all this, I'll marry her in 
a jiffey. 

Lady Bab. Marry her ! 

Leath. Yes, without saying one word more of her 
flaws or of her comicalness. 

Lady Bab. I see how it is : his brain is turned with 
the thoughts of being my publisher (aside). Explain, 
idiot, if you can, the meaning of all this. 

Leath. The meaning ! Oh ! for shame, my lady ; 
isn't here the letter you gave me in the shop so slily, 
pretending it came from a great Irish druggist ? (she 
snatches it from him and reads it.) And here the 
other, brought to me not an hour ago, in which you tell 
me that I am to have miss this very evening, and that 
her name is Ammonia, though she is vulgarly called 
Sal by the apothocaries. Oh, my lady ! 

Lady Bab. I understand the blunder now ; and this 
is the cause of the brute's raptures after all, instead of 
triumphing, as I fondly imagined, in the possession of 
my glorious manuscript. But I'll be revenged of him. 
Here, Davy, kick that impertinent bookseller out of the 
house. 

Davy. I wool, my lady. 

Lady B. And teach the vulgar bibliopolist to know 
how superior is the love of the nine Muses to that which 
is felt for mere mortal young women the former being 



M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 333 

a pure empyreal gas the latter (to say no worse of it), 
mere inflammable phlogiston ! [Exit. 

Davy. I wool, my lady. I'll teach him all that in 
no time (gets between Leatherhead and the door). 

Leath. I'm all in a panic (aside). By your leave, 
young man. 

Davy. Noa, you don't go in such a hurry ; you 
come here, you know, to marry the young lady, and it's 
I, you see, that's to perform the ceremony, only instead 
of miss's hand, you are to have my foot, you under- 
stand me. 

Leath. One word before you proceed. I don't 
much mind for myself, but I have got on a poor poet's 
best blue breeches. 

Davy. Don't tell me of a poet's blue breeches. I 
must do as mistress bid me. But come, you shall have 
a fair chance at starting too ; there now (gives room 
for him to run past him). 

Leath. Bless me, bless me! that a bookseller should 
be obliged to carry a large impression of Footers Works 
behind him ! [Runs off, and DAVY after him. 



SCENE VI. Lighted-up Apartments with folding 
doors, within which are discovered Lady BAB, Sir 
CHARLES, Miss SELWYN, and Captain CANVAS at 
cards, Miss HARTINGTON standing by them. 

Enter DE KOSIER. 

De Ros. Where am I? It seems to me like a dream 
of enchantment, and as if this strange old man were 
the magician that called it up. He bid me wander 
fearlessly through these splendid apartments, and he 
would soon be with me. I have seen nothing as I 
passed along but rich sparkling lamps and vases 



334 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

breathing with flowers ; and I have heard, at a distance, 
the sounds of sweet voices, that recall to me the times 
when I was gayest and happiest. (During this speech 
Miss Hartington has come forward, and is now close 
behind him unobserved.) Yes, Emily Hartington, 
'twas in scenes like these I first beheld that endearing 
smile, first listened to the tones of that gentle voice, 
which must never again charm my ear. 

Miss Hart. Mr. De Kosier I 

De Ros. (starting). Heavens ! do I dream, or is it 
indeed Miss Hartington ? Pardon this intrusion, madam, 
but 

Miss Hart. Oh, call it not intrusion, there is not, in 
this world, one more welcome (takes his hand). Yet, 
my father coming, and this company assembled, how 
can I ask him to remain ? (aside). 

De Eos. Allow me to retire, madam ; I have been 
led into this awkwardness by a poor, but venerable old 
man, who is, I suppose, a menial of this house, and who 
invited me (hesitating) 

Miss Hart. He has come with my father. How 
strange, but oh how happy ! (aside). Then you must 
stay I insist upon your staying. 

De Rosier (turning away, but affected by her 
kindness). No, no, dear Miss Hartington ! 

Sir G. (who during the few last words has come 
forward ; De Rosier still keeps his head turned away). 
What, Miss Hartington, can anyone be so stoical as to 
resist your solicitations ? Perhaps the gentleman is 
going to another party, a change of party is often 
very refreshing. 'I rat sometimes in that way myself.' 

Miss Hart. I must not let him perceive my agita- 
tion (aside). Perhaps, Sir Charles, you will be more 
successful in prevailing upon him. [Retires. 

Sir C. Ma'am, I'll second your motion with all my 
heart, though after you I can hardly hope to Pray 



M.R, OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 335 

(tapping De Rosier on the shoulder, who turns 
frowningly. ) 

De Ros. Well, sir ! 

Sir C. The devil ! this hectoring young emigrant, 
oh my nerves ! (aside). Ah ! took the hint, I see, and 
came after me, but you observe there are ladies here, 
and I'd rather put it off till to-morrow morning if you 
please, or the morning after, or any time in the course 
of the winter. 

De Ros. Make your mind easy, sir, there is not the 
least danger I assure you, of our ever being antagonists, 
unless by some fatality / should grow so feeble and 
defenceless as to tempt you to become the aggressor. 

[Turns away and retires. 

Sir C. Thank you, sir, very kind indeed. What 
the devil right has this vapouring shopman to be here ? 
Must turn him out must turn him out enforce the 
Standing Order for the exclusion of strangers. ( Turns 
round to look at Captain Canvas and Miss Selwyn, 
who have been all this time employed in an ex- 
planation about the miniature, which appears to end 
amicably.) What! my brother so close with Miss 
Selwyn ! um, this won't do (advances to them, and 
seems anxious to get him away from her). I say, 
my dear Captain, most happy of course to see you back 
from sea, but give me leave to tell you that, in this 
quarter I am the duly elected representative, while 
you are (with contempt) 

Capt. C. What, sir ? (firmly). 

Sir C. Oh, simply the returning officer, and, a 
word in your ear (apart), as you have been so unlucky 
here, I think you had better try Old Sarv.m yonder 
(pointing to Lady Bab). 

Capt. C. Brother! you have robbed me of every 
worldly advantage, and Heaven, for its own wise 
purpose, seems to favour your usurpation ; but here I 



336 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

have a claim (taking Miss Selwyris hand) acknow- 
ledged warmly and faithfully, which never, never, while 
I have life, will I resign. 

Lady Bab. Why, niece, are you mad ? or can you 
seriously mean, miss, to degrade the standard blood of 
the Blues by this base alloy of illegitimacy and poverty ? 

Miss S. You know already, madam, what I think 
of the claims of Sir Charles (Sir G. advances smirking 
towards her), that they are surpassed in hollowness only 
by his heart (Sir C. returns to his former place, dis- 
appointed). Captain Canvas has been, indeed, un- 
fortunate ; but though Love is often as blind as Fortune, 
and sometimes even puts on the bandage of that 
goddess, in this instance he sees with his own warm 
unerring eyes, and turns from the adopted changeling 
of Fortune, to acknowledge the true genuine inheritor 
of his soul (giving her hand to Capt. Canvas). 

Miss Hart. How perfectly my own feelings, if I could 
but dare to utter them ! (aside). But, see, my father ! 

Sir C. Odso I'm quite happy have long wished 
to know your father, Miss Hartington ! Thrown out 
in the other must canvas here (aside) 

Miss Hart. I shall have much pleasure in intro- 
ducing you to him. 

Enter Mr. HARTINGTON, in his own dress. 

Mr. Hart. Now for the crowning of this sweet day's 
task! (aside). 

Miss Hart, (leading Sir C. to him). Father! Sir 
Charles Canvas. 

Mr. Hart, (turning round). Your humble servant, 
sir (Sir C. starts, and sneaks off, Mr. H. following 
him). What ! do you turn away from me ? the c old 
pensioner, 1 your ' gauger-that-is-to-be ? ' Go, go, weak 
man. When fools turn engineers of mischief, the 



M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 337 

recoil of their own artillery is the best and surest 
punishment of their temerity. Captain Canvas ! you 
are welcome ; we must soon call you by another title ; 
though heraldry can furnish none so honourable as that 
which the brave man earns for himself. Mr. De 
Rosier, forgive me for the embarrassment I must have 
caused you, by so unprepared an introduction among 
strangers. And, daughter I I have two more guests for 
your assembly, whom this gentleman (pointing to Sir 
(7.), I have no doubt, will recognise with no less 
pleasure than he exhibited upon being presented to me. 
Come, madam (leads in Madame de Rosier and La 
Fosse). 

Sir C. So, so, I see 'tis all over with me (aside). 
Mr. Hart. This lady and her servant were present 
at the marriage of the late Lady Canvas, and will have 
much satisfaction, I doubt not, in being introduced to 
the rightful heir of the family, Captain Sir William 
Canvas. 

Mad. De Ros. (addressing herself to Capt. C.). I 
am happy, sir, that it is in my power to pay a tribute 
to the memory of my friend, by doing justice to the 
rights of a son, whom, I know, she loved most 
tenderly. 

La Fosse, (running up to Capt. C.). Ah ! den 
it is your ear I have pinched so often Grot bless my 
soul ! 

Lady Bab. So then, I find you are not Sir Charles 
Canvas after all ? 

Sir C. No, ma'am, nothing but plain Charlie 
Canvas, Esq., to which you may add M.P. till the next 
dissolution. 

Lady Bab. I declare that alters the result mate- 
rially ; and I begin to think it would not be altogether 
wise to trust my niece's fortune to you; for though you 

z 



338 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 

are a lively, mercurial fellow, yet we chemists know 
that gold, when amalgamated with quicksilver, be- 
comes very brittle, and soon flies. 

Sir C. So then, there's an end to all my dignities ; 
and now that I am decidedly out, it is high time for 
me to resign. Brother, I wish you joy, and my lords 
and gentlemen (ladies and gentlemen, I mean), for any 
other little delinquencies I have been guilty of, I must 
only throw myself on the mercy of the House. 

Mr. Hart, (coming forward with a miniature, 
which has, since his last speech, been given to him, 
with some dumb-show explanation, by Miss Selwyn 
and Capt. Canvas). Daughter! (with assumed 
severity}, here is a circumstance, which requires serious 
explanation. 

Miss Hart. My father ! 

Mr. Hart. You gave this miniature of yourself to 
Mr. de Eosier ? 

Miss Hart. What ! I ? Oh ! never. Mr. de Rosier 
(appealing to him) 

De Ros. No, madam, you did not give it. I confess 
with shame 

Mr. Hart. Come, children, your friends here have 
let me into a secret about you ; you love each other, 
and I rejoice, sir, that my daughter's heart has anti- 
cipated mine in doing justice to your merits. Take 
her, and be happy ; and may the events of this day be 
long remembered as a source of hope to the injured, 
and of warning to the unjust, of kindly omen to the 
faithful in love, and of sweet solace to the patient in 
adversity ! 



M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 339 

FINALE. 

DE ROSIER, Capt. CANVAS, Miss SELWYN, Miss 
HARTINGTON, and CHORUS. 

DE HOSIER. 

How sweet the day hath ended ! 
Ne'er yet has sun descended 

Leaving bliss 

So dear as this 
To gild the dreams of night. 

Chorus. How sweet the day hath ended ! &c. 

Captain CANVAS and Miss SELWYN. 

The bright star yonder 
As soon can wander 

As I from thee, 

As thou from me. 

Chorus. How sweet the day, &c. 

Miss HARTINGTON. 
Hope's rose had nearly perish'd, 
No breath its budding cherish'd ; 

But one hour 

Hath waked the flower 
In Love's own tenderest light ! 

Chorus. How sweet the day, &c. 



z2 



THE 

CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET 

A FRAGMENT. 



[This Fragment is now first printed from two manuscript 
books of Moore's, written in a hand so extremely minute, and with 
such complicated interlineations and corrections as to have proved 
decipherable only with the greatest difficulty, and with the aid of 
a powerful magnifying glass. The intrinsic merit of this unfinished 
romance proves, however, amply to warrant the time and labour spent 
upon it. It has all the grace and sparkle of one of the romances of 
Voltaire, and a sunny radiance of wit and poetry glancing over it 
that make us regret its premature close, like that of a brief day of 
sunlight passing abruptly into night.] 



CHAPTER L 

THE BLANKET. 

6 WHAT news from the Khalif ' s army ? ' asked the young 
student. His question was addressed to a grave old 
politician, whom he found seated beside him under a 
portico of the 'college Al Mostanseriah, at Bagdat. 

' Gloomy enough, sir,' answered the other. Our 
troops are flying in all directions from the Tartar 
general Holagu.' 

' And what mean then those rejoicings through the 
city ? ' 

fc They are for our last defeat, sir, which the Khalif 's 
minister declares, as he values his honour and his place, 
was no defeat at all, but a victory. He has accordingly 
ordered the inhabitants of Bagdat to rejoice, which 
they are now at this moment doing with the worst 
grace imaginable.' 

c How wise are the descendants of Abbas ! ' thought 
the youtli to himself; 'they seem to think that For- 
tune, like the moon, can be released from her eclipse 
by the rude clangour of senseless rejoicing.' 

4 But,' he resumed, ' the Tartar will soon be at your 
gates. Does not the Khalif mean to arm the inhabi- 
tants ? ' 

' Allah forbid ! ' replied the old gentleman, who be- 
longed to the established order of the Sonnites ; ' we 
should then be indebted for our safety to those heretics 



344 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

the Shiites. You are evidently a stranger, young man, 
or you would know better than to suppose we would 
trust one hair of our orthodox heads to a set of infidels 
who disbelieve the blessed Chapter of the Blanket.' 
The student upon this wished the pious Sonnite a good 
evening, and retired to his apartments. 

The name of this youth was C . He had left 

Europe under the banner of the Saint-King Louis, and 
had done honour to the red branch upon his shield 1 at 
the battles of Mansurah and ,the Ashmun, in the latter 
of which that monarch was himself taken prisoner. But 
when St. Louis, having purchased back his sacred per- 
son at a price which few kings have ever been worth to 
their subjects, concluded peace with Azzodin Aijbec 
and returned to France, young C , who had some- 
what more taste for learned pursuits than his brother 
Crusaders could in general boast, resolved to visit the 
schools of the East, and to exchange the pious task of 
murdering heathens for the somewhat more useful one 
of studying and improving by them. 

On entering his apartment he found his faithful 
servant Diarmid stretched at full length over a large 
sheet of mathematical figures, which the young scholar 
had drawn that morning with his tutor, and slumbering 
almost as sound among the triangles as the Egyptian 
kings under their pyramids. 

' These Tartars, Diarmid, will, I fear, interrupt my 
studies.' 

' And my sleep, sir,' said Diarmid, rubbing his eyes, 
4 which is a much more weighty consideration. I was 
in hopes that we had done with battles and sieges, and 
that your valour and my prudence had quite sufficiently 
distinguished themselves ; but here we are again in the 

1 It was my intention to make my hero an Irishman, but, 
I believe, I should have given up this idea. 



A FRAGMENT. 345 

very midst of troubles. Ah, sir ! 'tis a sad thing to go 
to one's bed at night with the expectation of being 
waked by a battering-ram in the morning, and 
having your head and your slumbers broken together; 
to catch one's death going out in a shower of arrows, 
or ' 

6 Put up those books,' said C , interrupting him, 

' and meet me early in the morning at Masud's villa.' 

This villa was a little rural retreat on the banks of 
the Tigris which belonged to Masud, his venerable pre- 
ceptor, and to which the youth often fled for coolness 
during the sultry nights of that climate. 

The sun was now setting, and the modest Arabian 
jasmines, which had kept their odours to themselves all 
day, were just now beginning to let the sweet secrst 
out, and to make every passing breeze their confidante. 
To some minds the hour of sunset brings a feeling of 
sadness, and doubtless a Laplander may well be allowed 
to look a little pensive on such an occasion. But this 

was not one of C 's weaknesses, if we may judge by 

the gaiety with which he now rowed his boat down the 
Tigris. Not that there was anything at this moment to 
make him particularly lively ; but he had ever possessed 
that happy kind of imagination which retains the im- 
pressions of past pleasure, as the Bologna stone trea- 
sures up sunbeams ; and the light of one joy had 
scarcely time to fade from his heart before he was sure 
to find some means of kindling it up with another. 

He was now arrived in sight of the little villa of 
Masud, and the mild moonlight which fell upon every 
object, becalmed the whole scene into such beautiful 
repose, as gave a tone of softness even to the wild 
spirits of C . 

Not far beyond this villa was the palace of the 
Emir Al Omera, the most favourite counsellor of the 



346 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

Khalif, and chosen, like all other favourite counsellors, 
for his zeal and courage in recommending measures 
which he knew his master had fully determined in his 
own mind already. But the chief point upon which 
this Emir prided himself, was the superior excellence 
of his seraglio and library ; and, to do him justice, it 
was agreed on all hands that there was not in all 
Bagdat a more beautiful collection of women and books. 
So fastidious was he in these kinds of vertu, that he 
rejected all but maidens and originals, and would have 
nothing to say to either widows or translations. 

It was rumoured indeed, in the best-informed circles 
of Bagdat, that the Emir's love was worth about as 
much as his learning ; that he was more of a Platonist 
in his seraglio than in his library ; and that he con- 
tented himself with merely admiring the varieties of 
illumination in the eyes of his mistresses and the 
margins of his manuscripts, without troubling himself 
with any further research into either. But, however 
this might be, he had built, for the reception of both, 
a most splendid palace upon the banks of the Tigris, 
and never did its graceful columns and light-springing 
arches throw a softer shade over the bosom of the 

river than on this very evening as the boat of C 

approached it. But whither is the youth directing his 
course? He has already passed the humble villa of 
Masud, and is now gliding under the shadow of the 
sycamore trees, which hang from the lofty terrace of 
Al Omera's seraglio. Is it the beauty of the evening 
which tempts him so far ? or is he about to study the 
fair planet Venus which is just now shining with that 
half-retired disc which astronomers tell us is the most 
engaging of all her attitudes ? 

Before these questions can be answered with cer- 
tainty we must return to some events which are left 



A FRAGMENT. 347 

not im designedly behind us. Dante says that in going 
up a hill the hinder foot should always be the firmer, 1 
and assuredly in the uphill work of beginning a nar- 
rative, the hind-foot of the story cannot be too firmly 
planted. 



CHAPTEE II. 

THE NOWROWZ. 

OUR student loved not only learning, but everything 
else that a young man ought to love ; and accordingly 
from the very first evening which he passed in the 
neighbourhood of the palace, he could dream of nothing 
but the various sorts of treasures which it contained ; 
Aristotles in Greek, and Sapphos of all languages ; 
books of magic, and looks of enchantment, leaves never 
turned, and lips never breathed upon, so haunted his 
fancy with their different kinds of charms, that fre- 
quently in his sleep, he would confuse them together, 
and imagine that he beheld some white-shouldered 
Circassian, with nothing but a manuscript to cover her 
beauties, like that lady in Boileau, 2 whose petticoat 
was made out of three College Theses written upon 
satin. 

One morning during the Nowrowz or festival of the 
spring, having risen with the sun and walked into the 
gay green lawn which sloped from the cottage to the 
river, he observed upon the grass, which was still wet 
with the night-dew, the prints of a foot so small and 
beautiful, that he could have sworn it belonged to 



1 ' II pi6 dietro il piu fermo.' 

2 Madame Tardieu. 



348 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

some spiritual being, had he not known how seldom 
your immortals leave any traces of themselves behind. 
Surprised at this phenomenon, he followed the direction 
of the footsteps, and could trace them up close to the 
windows of a summer-house where he often studied 
when the nights were warm ; from thence they returned 
and continued by the side of the river till they were 
lost at the entrance of a deep dark wood which ex- 
tended along the banks of the Tigris, between Masud's 
lawn and the gardens of the Emir. In a fancy like 
that of the young student, this was more than sufficient 
to engender a thousand vague imaginations, and though 
doubtless a Hercules may be judged from the foot with 
somewhat more certainty than a Venus, yet could he 
not help building on this very slight foundation, so 
faultless a superstructure of grace and beauty as no 
foot in this world ever yet supported, except that 
perhaps of the easel of an Apelles. 

' Beware ' (said his man Diarmid, who found him 
examining these footprints), ' beware, sir, of what you 
are about ; there are certain demons in this country so 
diminutive, that whenever they are inclined to pass for 
anything human (being unable to take a whole corpse 
to themselves like your portly European devils), they 
are obliged to content themselves with animating only 
particular parts of it ; and it depends entirely upon 
their whim and propensities whether they will rail at 
you as a tongue, pick your pockets as a hand, snore in 
your ears as a nose, or do anything else that any other 
member is capable of. That virtuous and much-tempted 
philosopher, Essophi, whenever he unlocked and entered 
his study, used to see a white hand suspended over his 
writing-desk, which would instantly let fall the pen at 
his approach, and vanishing leave him a half-finished 
love-letter from a succubus, scrawled crossways over his 



A FRAGMENT. 349 

most orthodox orisons. In like manner the Persian 
poet Massala was haunted wherever he went by a pair 
of bright blue eyes, which kept constantly staring at 
him during his moments of composition, till at length 
he was advised one day to write an ode in their praise, 
upon which these blue demons disappeared and never 
troubled him afterwards. Now who knows, sir, but 
that these footmarks which you are tracing may belong 
to some peripatetic little demon, who has taken it into 
his head to become a foot for your bewilderment? 
They swarm chiefly in seraglios, because there is a 
certain ' 

At the word ' seraglios ' the heart of C was 

awakened from the reverie in which it had continued 
during the whole of this demonological harangue. He 
cast one look towards the wood into which the foot 
seemed to have entered, and leaving Diarmid, as usual, 
to finish his speech by himself, he flew to his chamber, 
and taking up a Euclid endeavoured to forget, among 
the legs of triangles, the impression which the sight of 
this footstep had made upon him. 

' It is certain,' said he, after a few hours' study, as 
if fully convinced by the demonstrations of his author, 
' it is certain that there must be some communication 
between our lawn and the gardens of the Seraglio.' 
This point being decided, he resumed his Euclid, and 
every page he turned proved to him more and more 
that he ought not to let that night pass over without 
endeavouring to unravel the mystery of the footmark. 

Accordingly when all was dark and quiet, when 
Masud had extinguished his study-lamp, and Diarmid 
lay dreaming that his body and members were let out 
in lodgings to families of little devils, he stole across 
the lawn to that part of the wood at which his pursuit 
in the morning had terminated. It was a clear moon- 



350 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

light night, but the trees were so thick and tangled, 
and stood up in such bigoted array against the least 
innovation of light, that he could neither find a path 
nor make one, but was obliged to contend every inch of 
his way with the branches, till, wearied and disheartened 
by the difficulties of the progress, he began to think 
that Diarmid was in the right, and that nothing under 
the rank of a demon was privileged to pass through 
such horrors. Just at this moment he felt something 
like a path beneath his feet, and at the same instant 
heard a strain of music as sudden as if he had touched the 
spring which was to set its melody in motion. The 
music soon ceased, but the path seemed to continue be- 
fore him, and never did ignorance rush into an argument 
more boldly, than he flew through this unseen opening 
without once thinking whither it would lead him. He 
had not run far when the music began again, but the 
sounds appeared to come from behind him, which was 
not only a mysterious, but a provoking circumstance, 
as it invited him back into all the horrors he had just 
been so happy at having surmounted. 

During the pause which this dilemma occasioned, 
he thought the strain came nearer to the place where he 
stood, nor could he help feeling, if not awed, yet 
certainly a little serious at the approach of sounds, 
which seemed to him, at that moment, somewhat more 
than mere mortal minstrelsy. 

[It is a proof surely of the spiritual nature of music, 
that it is the only art pure enough from earthly associa- 
tions to be ranked among the pleasures or pursuits of a 
supernatural being. A rhyming ghost or a painting 
ghost is a thing not known in the science of pneumatics, 
while the idea of a spirit wakening the stillness of night 
with some of Heaven's own native melodies, is at least 



A FRAGMENT. 351 

as reconcilable to imagination and taste, as the hymning 
of cherubs round the throne of the Divinity.] 1 

In a few minutes the sounds were heard no more, a 
quiet rustling of the branches succeeded, and a figure 
rushed precipitately by him. He endeavoured, but in 
vain, to seize the object as it passed, and it was equally 
in vain that he flew in pursuit of it, for he soon learned 
by the dying away of the footsteps on his ear, that it 
had either outrun him, or, what was more probable, 
that he himself had struck into a different path. Hour 
after hour did he struggle through this labyrinth, till 
at length a friendly vista opened upon him, and he 
found himself upon the banks of the river, not a 
hundred yards from the lawn which he had left. 

[And the sun was up shining, and Masud was up 
studying (while shame on the boy and his wanderings 
in the dark !), he had been neither the warmer for the 
one, nor the wiser for the other.] 2 

It was some consolation, however, to remember that 
in the effort which he made to catch this invisible 
musician, he had touched a hand, which was at least a 
match for the foot, and which perfectly relieved him 
from all the alarms he had felt with respect to the 
spirituality of the object. 



CHAPTER III. 

IT was indeed no spirit whose footstep the youth had 
seen, whose lute he had heard, and whose hand he had 
touched. It was the lovely and learned Haluta, the 

1 Moore has erased this passage in the MS. 

2 Erased in the MS. 



352 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

best rarity in the Emir's collection, and marked in his 
catalogue at the same price with that curious copy of 
the Koran which had the stains of Mahomet's holy 
pigeon upon every leaf of it. 1 Her father, a school- 
master of Lesbos, having no son to inherit his learning, 
resolved to lay out every syllable of it upon his daughter, 
and accordingly filled her mind with all that was legible 
and illegible, without once considering that the poor 
girl's intellect might possibly be too weak for such an 
experiment, and that if guns were made of glass we 
should be but idly employed in loading them. She 
advanced in beauty as rapidly as in learning, and her 
tongue and her eyes grew daily more eloquent ; but 
alas ! she had no one either to listen to her or look at 
her, which was a sad state of insulation for a creature 
so charged and so excited ; till at length an artful old 
Athenian, who was familiar in her father's house, and had 
long speculated upon the young learner's beauties, took 
her into the corner one day, and gravely asked her 
opinion upon the possibility of accommodating matters 
between the Greek and Latin churches. This first 
appeal to her learning and judgment was a dawn of 
new light upon the proud soul of Haluta. After a 
little blushing and faltering, her voice and her brow 
became elevated, her arms waved in the air, and her 
bright eyes shone with self-complacency, while she 
proved to him as rationally as the Pope himself could 
have done, that while the monosyllable ex stood in the 
place of the monosyllable per, there could be neither 
peace nor harmony in the Christian world. 

During the whole of this display the Athenian sat 

1 This is enumerated among the treasures of Fadladeen, the 
Chamberlain, in Lalla RookJi : His Koran, too, supposed to be 
the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet's favourite 
pigeon used to nestle.' ED. 



A FRAGMENT. 353 

in silent attention, neither minding one syllable of her 
discourse, nor losing one motion of her person. Such 
audience was irresistible ; accordingly in three days 
after she eloped with him from her father's house, 
happy in the sacrifice of home and character to the 
only man in the world who had taste enough to appre- 
ciate her intellectual advantages. 

This man was an Epicurean, but not of that simple 
old sect which held pleasure to be the only good, be- 
cause it considered good to be the only pleasure : he 
was rather one of those modern heretics of the Garden, 
who retain all that is voluptuous in the system with as 
little of the morality attached to it as possible, and who 
still keep pleasure in possession of the throne, though 
they reduce her body-guard of virtue to almost nothing. 
We may easily suppose then the kind of bias which 
the morals of Haluta received during the honeymoon 
moments of their intercourse, but short indeed were 
those moments and theoretical their delights. He soon 
even ceased to consult her about the Greek and Latin 
churches ; there was no longer any inspection of her 
eyes, no longer any patience under her harangues ; and 
if it were not that her chamber had an echo and a look- 
ing-glass, she would have forgotten the whole force of 
her voice and her beauty. 

About this time a woman-merchant arrived in 
Lesbos, who had long been employed by the Emir Al 
Omera to buy him up everything curious in that line 
which he could meet with. The fame of the Emir's 
other propensity had of course reached the erudite 
Haluta, and the idea of passing into possession of a con- 
noisseur, who had for some years enhanced the prices 
of love and learning, by draining the market of all the 
best beauties and books, was too flattering to be sur- 
mounted. One morning, therefore, while the Epicurean 

A A 



354 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

was employed in lecturing upon a thinly-robed statue 
of Venus, and demonstrating that such was the drapery 
which a philosopher hung over pleasure, more trans- 
parent and easy than the cumbrous folds of the vestal, 
and more tasteful and decent than the unreserved 
nakedness of the Bacchante, Haluta, who thought her 
presence unnecessary where nothing but the theory of 
pleasure was concerned, stole away very quietly to the 
woman-merchant, and in the course of a few days was 
shipped off to the coast of Asia, with a cargo such as 
King Solomon would have valued more than all the 
navy of Tarshish ever brought him. 

She had now been near a year in the seraglio, and 
had never seen her proprietor, who was too much 
occupied by the alarming events of the times, to admit 
of a moment's indulgence in either of his favourite 
pursuits. To the same cause the nymphs of the seraglio 
were indebted for much more freedom and gaiety than 
ever they had been suffered to enjoy ; and indeed 
throughout all Bagdat, there appeared that growing 
licence, that impatience of control, which, like the 
relaxation of discipline aboard a ship that is in danger, 
so often arises in troubled times, from the fears of the 
Government and the desperation of the people. 

In one of those midnight rambles which the negli- 
gence of her guards allowed her, Haluta had reached 
the lawn of Masud's villa, and observing a light at a 
distance, stole cautiously towards it. The windows of 
the summer-house were open, and by a lamp which 
burned upon the table she could discover a youth 
leaning thoughtfully over a volume, which he seemed 
to have just that instant closed, but which he had 
evidently left for the purpose of becoming better 

acquainted with it. The beauty of C 's face and 

form was such as no eye could look at carelessly, and 



A FRAGMENT. 355 

we may imagine how it must have bewildered the heart 
of a girl who had never till this moment seen anything 
better than her ugly, old, theoretical Epicurean and her 
still more theoretical guardians of the seraglio. 

The book was resting upon a helmet, which he had 
for some time devoted to that peaceful purpose ; and 
the gravity of the student's-robe he wore but ill ac- 
corded with the chivalrous air of his person and the 
gallant animation of his eye. 

Haluta gazed till it was no longer safe to stay ; and 
then sighing, hurried back to the loveless chambers of 
the seraglio, printing, as she went, those memorable 
footsteps which awakened, next morning, such a spirit 
of research in the young student. 

The adventure of the wood has already been related, 
and notwithstanding the rapidity with which she then 
fled from her pursuer, she had courage enough on the 
following day to venture into the same maze, and take 
the chance of a similar encounter. Indeed it was not 
so much from timidity that she delayed throwing 
herself into his arms, as from that wish which is some- 
times felt by us poor mortals, to linger as long as we 
can on the outskirts of happiness, and make the 
approaches to joy, like the avenue of a tasteful villa, 
not straight and direct, but gradual, winding and 
diversified. 

It was little more than mid-day when Haluta, for 
the third time, directed her way towards Masud's lawn. 
The heat was excessive, every eye that could afford it 
was shut up in sleep, and there was at that moment not 
a man of fashion awake in all Bagdat. The only sounds 
that interrupted the stillness as she passed with languid 
step over the lawn, was now and then a half-suppressed 
laugh from a distant group of girls, who were taking 

AA2 



356 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

advantage of that hour of repose to bathe in the waters 
of the Tigris. 

She saw there was no one now in the pavilion ; but 
a kind of instinct whispered her to try the dark walk 
of limes upon the right ; she knew not whither it led, 
and therefore there must be something interesting at 
the end of it. A shady walk, and a reserved beauty, 
are among the gentlest mysteries that a man can have 
to explore; and the best of it is, they may be explored 
together. But in the present case the limes had all 
the modesty to themselves ; as Haluta could scarcely 
be called a reserved beauty. This path opened into a 
small glade, in the middle of which was a little lake 
that reflected the full splendours of noon, while the 
verdure around it slept coolly under the shadow of the 
encircling trees. The source of the lake was a fountain, 
hid almost in plane-trees, from which the water stole 
with a clear but loitering current, as if half afraid to 
encounter the bold sunshine that wantoned over the 

lake. By the side of this fountain lay C in a light 

summer sleep, with his cheek resting against the cold 
marble ; whose paleness strikingly contrasted to the 
dark and manly bloom of his complexion. Haluta's 
heart, agitated alike by apprehension and hope, beat 
high with anticipation, while with a trembling hand 
she wrote the following lines upon a tablet, and hung 
them from a vase which stood close to his resting- 
place : 

He that was content to look 
At the moonlight in the brook 
To reward his humble view 
Saw the brook and moonlight too, 
While the proud aspiring elf 
Who would view the moon herself, 
Fell into the brook before him 
Ere he saw the moonlight o'er him. 



A FRAGMENT. 357 

Dost thou love a smile of joy ? 
Seek it in the fountain, boy ! 
Look not up, or thou shalt miss 
Present smile and future bliss. 

The rustling sound caused by Haluta in placing 
these verses had somewhat loosened the bonds of sleep 
round the young student ; and she had scarcely time to 
escape into the lime-tree walk behind him, when the 
young student awoke. His first movement upon seeing 
the tablets, was anxiously to look round for the writer 
of them; but she was too well shaded within the 
foliage for even her bright eyes to betray her ; and, as 
soon as she perceived that he had read the verses, and 
that, obeying almost unconsciously their mandate, he 
leaned down over the watery mirror, with a palpitating 
heart she stole from her concealment, and, stepping 
upon the plinth of a column behind him, looked fondly 
over his head into the basin, with one of those perfect 
smiles, which blend all that passion has of warmth 
with all that beauty has of brilliancy. 

The youth started with astonishment, and was on 
the point of forgetting the warning of the verses, when 
Haluta, gently laying her hand upon his head, with a 
voice sweet as the song of promise, repeated these 
words : 

Look not up, or thou shalt miss 
Present smile and future bliss ! 

Then, flying through the lime-tree walk, like an 
antelope, scarce touched the grass of the lawn, and was 
once more in the gardens of the seraglio. 

6 Oh Plato ! ' (exclaimed the student as he returned 
thoughtfully to the summer-house), ' if, as thou hast 
told us, whatever we behold of good or lovely in this 
world be but the shadow or the reflection of something 



358 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

that is above us, let the features I have just seen be 
the exemplar of all my ideas, and as I gaze upon the 
passing stream of life, let that bright face for ever lean 
over my shoulder ! ' 

Haluta, in the meantime, had exulted to think how 
refinedly she had graduated that feeling of interest, 
which it was her pride to have excited in the heart of 
the young student ; he had now traced her footstep, 
touched her hand, heard the sound of her voice, and 
seen the reflection of her eyes, and though in these four 
first degrees of the scale she had not followed exactly 
the old classical climax of love, yet we must suppose 
that she meant to be more correct as she proceeded ; 
and indeed, that very night, so impatient was she to 
learn the effects of her morning apparition, that though 
there shone not a star in the sky, and the winds sung 
their war-whoop in the woods, yet she contrived to 
reach the little light upon the lawn ; and felt neither 
storm nor gloom, while she gazed through the windows 
of the summer-house. It was with pleasure she saw 
that he no longer appeared careless and composed, nor 
was vanity wanting to tell her the source of the sigh 
that stole from his lips, and the passion that languished 
in his looks. His ponderous Aristotle now stood upon 
the shelf, and, [much as she had been taught to respect 
the physics of the Stagirite, she thought the restless 
fire whicn was in the eyes of the youth at this moment, 
a more luminous comment on the laws of Nature than 
all that the philosophers of antiquity could supply. 1 ] 
Upon the table before him was a scroll, which he occa- 
sionally touched with a pencil, and then, starting from 
his seat, walked hastily about the chamber, as if dis- 
satisfied with the scroll, and the pencil, and all around 

1 This passage is erased in the MS. 



A FRAGMENT. 359 

him. The door of the summer-house was open, and 
Haluta already stood upon the threshold ; her curiosity 
could hold out no longer, and as soon as he had re- 
turned to his seat, she stole quietly behind him, and 
saw (what a triumph for her heart!) that it was a 
portrait of herself that occupied him, that he was en- 
deavouring to embody the bright vision which he had 
seen in the morning, and to catch some resemblance 
of that warm smile, whose reflection had, like Greek 
fire, burned through the very waters of the fountain. 

' Is that like me ? ' said the nymph archly, over his 
shoulder. 

6 Oh no, nor is anything else in this world,' replied 
the youth, as he cast himself in impassioned bewilder- 
ment at her feet. 

The monks of St. Basil, at the opposite side of the 
river, were singing their midnight panagium, as the 
youth pronounced these words, and the same monks 
had nearly finished their matin service, before Haluta 
could find it in her heart to return among the eunuchs 
of the seraglio. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE SILVER VEIL. 

WE can now account for the course which C 

steered on that moonlight evening, when we left him 
in his boat gliding rapidly past the palace of the Emir. 
His meetings with Haluta were not always practicable 
at the summer-house ; for Masud, being an astronomer, 
often sat up at night to study all kinds of celestial 
conjunctions, which made it unsafe for lovers to come 



360 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

together in his neighbourhood ; and Diarmid was one 
of those awkward allies, whose interference in such 
cases is much more to be dreaded than solicited, while 
his wit, at least as mischievous as it was nimble, would 
be as misplaced in a love-affair as a monkey in a flower- 
garden. It had become necessary, therefore, to seek 
some other rendezvous, and there is no deity whose 
votaries are more easily accommodated with a place of 
worship than those of Love. 

About a mile below the Emir's palace stood the 
ruins of an old nunnery, whose abbess, according to 
tradition, had suddenly disappeared one night and was 
never after seen, but in a large crystal mirror, which 
she had had the vanity to hang up in her own apart- 
ment, and in which (said the legend), for many a day 
after, she appeared to stand pale and disfigured, beside 
the image of every person who looked in it. The sister- 
hood did not long survive this supernatural crystalliza- 
tion of their abbess, and the walls were left to solitude 
and decay. For a short time indeed they were taken 
possession of by a few speculating monks, who thought 
to establish there one of those regular stages, at which 
Christian pilgrims used to set up at night, and start 
afresh with relays of absolution in the morning; but 
the situation did not answer for such a design ; and the 
building had again been untenanted and desolate when 

C selected it as the scene of his meetings with 

Haluta. The ruins of religion became thus the asylum 
of love, reversing the fate of those pious old beauties, 
who begin by being shrines of love, and generally end 
by breaking down into tabernacles. 

It was hither that C directed his course, and as 

he landed from the boat, he saw a lamp gleaming 
through the arches, which he knew to be Haluta's, and 
flew to it as naturally as the winged lover of the glow- 



A FRAGMENT. 361 

worm when she lights him through the gloom of night 
to her embraces. He pronounced her name as he 
approached, and the girl rushed forwards to meet him, 
but she had just time to reach his arms, when she fell 
trembling and breathless between them ; and as he 
caught the lamp which had nearly fallen from her hands, 
he could see by its light that the paleness of terror was 
upon her cheeks. 

' Let us fly from this place,' were the only words 
she could articulate; and when the youth with an 
assuring caress bid her calm her fears and explain to 
him the cause of them, a look of earnest supplication 
and a motion of her hand towards the river were all the 
reply she seemed able to give him. There was therefore 

no time to delay or hesitate, and though C had 

rather a taste for danger, it was one of the very few 
amusements which he did not like women to partake 
with him ; accordingly he raised the trembling Haluta 
in his arms, and placiog her in the boat, rowed back 
towards the palace of the Emir. They had scarcely put 
off from the bank, when a harsh and confused noise like 
the clanging of brass, with murmurs of voices, seemed 
to come from a distant wing of the building, and as he 
followed a winding of the river, which led to a fuller 
view of the ruins, he could see the windows of that 
part which had originally been a chapel illuminated at 
regular intervals with flashes of strong blue light. Sur- 
prised at these appearances, and impatient to know 
what Haluta had witnessed, the youth now laid aside 
his oars, and taking her head upon his bosom, en- 
deavoured to smile away her terrors, and win her into 
telling what had happened. Like water sleeping safe 
under the lee of the land, is a woman when protected 
by the man whom she loves. Haluta gradually recovered 
her breath and her courage, and while their boat lay 



362 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

idly floating among the moonbeams, thus proceeded to 
satisfy his curiosity, not without a shudder now and 
then, as she caught, through the interposing trees, a 
glimpse of that blue light which still flashed through 
the arches of the ruin. 

'Thou knowest, my love, that the followers of 
Al Mokanna, the wonderful prophet of the silver veil, 
who disappeared in the 163rd year of the Hegira, have 
long looked to his return upon earth as their signal of 
vengeance on the enemies of his sect, and as a harbinger 
of ruin to the proud race of the Abassides. This 
avenger is come, he is now within the walls of that ruin. 
Nay, smile not, incredulous boy ! but hear me. Curiosity 
so far surmounted my terrors, that I stole to a window 
of the chapel, where Al Mokanna now celebrates his 
mysteries. I have seen the veil of silver which hides 
the insufferable radiance of his countenance. I have 
beheld the white banners of his chiefs. At this moment 
they stand around the caldron, whose blue fires you 
have seen reflected through the ruins, and swear to 
avenge the heroes who fell beside their prophet in 
Khorassan. I have heard the awful sound of his voice. 
I have seen the cup of blood go round. I have seen 
Oh Grod ! I have seen such rites as my heart sickens 
to remember, but never, never can forget.' 

While she spoke these words, her voice faltered with 
agitation, the scenes which she described seemed to rise 
again before her, and she hastily hid her eyes in the 
bosom of her companion, who, though he knew the 
warmth and wildness of her imagination too well to 
rely implicitly upon its colouring, yet could not help 
feeling his curiosity awakened by the earnestness of 
belief with which she related these wonders. They had 
now reached a small gate under the terrace of the 
seraglio gardens, which opened immediately upon the 



A FRAGMENT. 363 

river and led to the baths of the black eunuchs. Here 
they found a female slave waiting for Haluta, and no 
sooner had he placed her safe within the gate, and 
made those little compacts and arrangments which 
lovers generally sign and seal at parting, than he jumped 
into his boat and rowed rapidly back towards the ruins. 

He was well aware that this revival of Al Mokanna, 
and those ceremonies in the chapel, to which the fancy 
and credulity of Haluta had given such a tinge of 
romantic horror, would prove to be no more than one of 
those gross impostures which spring up so thick in the 
rank soil of Oriental fanaticism. If the world's best 
religion comes from the East, its worst superstition is 
derived thence also, as in the same quarter of the 
heavens arises the sunbeam that cherishes the flower 
and the chilling wind that nips it. Though conscious 
of all this, and expecting to meet with little more 
than the juggling of knavery or the nonsense of en- 
thusiasm, yet as he approached the ruins, there was a 
solemnity in the scene which, added to the mystery 
thrown over the meetings of these fanatics, impressed 
his mind with that vague kind of awe to which 
scepticism itself is not always inaccessible. The light 
from the chapel was now become so dim as scarcely to 
be visible, and, as he passed through the arches into a 
long corridor which led to the opening where Haluta 
had seen all she described, the deep silence which 
reigned throughout the building made him fear that 
the prophet and his followers had dispersed, and that he 
should lose the opportunity of witnessing their orgies. 

At this moment a faint flash of light appeared at 
the end of the corridor, and he hastened to avail him- 
self of the opening which it betrayed ; but all was 
darkness and silence within, except just where the fire 
of the caldron was giving its last hectic gleam, he 



364 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

could discover the figure of a man leaning over it, and 
endeavouring to read a large scroll by its light. His 
dress was singular and grotesque, but as the blaze fell 
upon his countenance the youth could perceive that it 
was a face of no common stamp, that it was one of 
those proof impressions from the hand of Nature, in 
which the lines are all vivid, deep and vigorous, and every 
touch pregnant with original mind. While he paused 
to consider whether he should interrupt this solitary 
student, some fragments of the wall upon which he 
stood gave way, and, crumbling into the chapel, startled 
the stranger, who, looking anxiously round, put his 
hand to the white feathered helmet which he wore, and 
let a veil of silver fall suddenly over his features. At 
the same moment the last light of the caldron expired, 
and all was dark and still as the grave. Not a breath, 
not a sound betrayed the retreat of the false Al 
Mokanna, and Connal l having at least ascertained for 
Haluta that the face of the prophet, though of very 
good temporal materials, had nothing of that dazzling 
spirituality which she imagined, hastened back to his 
boat, not without a slight malediction upon those mid- 
night apostles, who had thus deprived him of more 
pleasure in this world than he could venture to take 
their security for in the next. 

The day-break was near, and as he returned towards 
the villa of Masud, nodding ' per arsin et thesin ' over 
his oar, he could not help reflecting between sleeping and 
waking, upon the many baleful purposes to which the 
very best things of this life are perverted. 'How 
excellent ' (said he with a yawn), are the uses of 
religion and chemistry, but how knavish are the preten- 
sions of the priest and the alchemist, and how pitiable 

1 The name is here written in full in the MS. 



A FRAGMENT. 365 

are the dupes who stand gaping with expectation, till 
the one shall make gold out of lead, and the other 
turn sots into angels ! ' 



CHAPTER V. 

THE ANNIVERSARY. 

THOUGH the people of Bagdat had been assured every 
day by their rulers that they were the freest, wisest, 
and happiest people in the world, yet some doubts upon 
the subject had lately got amongst them, and now that 
the conqueror Holagu was at their gates, the very 
wisest of them began to suspect that they were neither 
free, nor wise, nor prosperous. 

This Holagu was one of those extraordinary agents 
of Providence to whom the Deity, from time to time, 
appears to have delegated his powers, of producing as 
well as destroying, of blessing as well as of blasting. 
He had already overrun a great part of Asia, spreading 
fear and desolation through the worn-out dynasties of 
the East, and though still as he broke the old fetters of 
a people, he took care to forge them another set of his 
own manufacture, yet the very change was refreshing, 
and the new chains had a brightness and polish, which 
made them feel smooth and portable after the filthy 
rust of the old ones. His last exploit, before he turned 
his arms against Bagdat, was the utter extirpation of 
the impious Prince of the Ismaelians (the Old Man of 
the Mountains), so formidable from the guilty devotion 
of his followers, and the ease with which he could 
command the life of the most guarded potentate. 



366 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

What a blessed era of diplomacy it must have been 
when at every Court there were accredited assassins, 
who usually made the point of a poniard their ulti- 
matum ! Kocneddin, the last chief of the assassins, 
was routed from all his fortresses by the irresistible 
Holagu, to the no small relief of some poor Christian 
princes, whose piety and fears had doomed them to the 
double subjection of bribing the Pope for their salvation 
hereafter, and purchasing from Eocneddin their exist- 
ence here. To a conqueror like this, whose arms and 
whose arts made him formidable to the oppressor and 
welcome to the oppressed, Bagdat had nothing to 
oppose but a doting and an obstinate old Khalif, a weak, 
corrupt, and bigoted ministry, and a people disunited, 
degenerate and rebellious. 

The Mahometans were at this time divided into 
Sonnites and Shiites, the former of whom, being the 
orthodox and established sect, claimed a right of course 
to trample down the latter, and as long as able and 
learned Shiites could be excluded by any means from 
the offices of state, it was no matter how many foolish 
Sonnites got into them ; from which it resulted that 
the Government was just as silly as it was orthodox, 
while the people were driven to be rebels as well as 
heretics. It is a striking fact, but not very hard to 
be accounted for, that, as the parts of a magnet cut 
through the axis are observed to repel or avoid each 
other, so different sects of the same religion are 
always found to be most actively at variance, and a 
Christian and a Turk have much better chance of 
agreeing than a Sonnite and a Shiite, or a Nestorian and 
a Eutychite. 1 

1 ' A Protestant and a Catholic ' was the original reading, for 
which an Arian and an Athanasian ' was substituted ; that also 
giving way to the third and final reading of the text. ED. 



A FRAGMENT. 367 

The Tartar chief was well apprised of these dissen- 
sions, which he smiled at as a philosopher, and profited 
by as a conqueror, and it was even believed that the 
folly of the Khalif 's ministers, who acted as a kind of 
recruiting-party for the enemy, had driven into his 
interest some of the wisest and best men of Bagdat. 
Nassireddin, the illustrious mathematician and astro- 
nomer, had lately disappeared, and was supposed to 
be in the camp of Holagu. Hosamoddin Torantai, 
the terrible Hosamoddin Torantai, whom . everybody 
spoke of, but no one acknowledged to have seen, per- 
vaded all Bagdat with a secret and omnipresent in- 
fluence, for which nothing but the agency of the devil 
could satisfactorily account, and whatever machination 
of darkness or clanger was discovered, his name still 
proved to have been the mighty spell that evoked it. 

While the public mind was thus rent and agitated, 
and every hour new omens and rumours of peril from 
without and treason from within alarmed the fears 
of the weak and superstitious, there was not an old 
woman in Bagdat who did not double her number of 
prayers and ablutions, and grow holier and sweeter than 
ever she was before. In the midst of this tribulation 
arrived the nineteenth anniversary of the Khalif 's acces- 
sion to the throne of the Abassides, a day whose celebra- 
tion had long been a subject of melancholy ridicule to 
those who saw nothing throughout his reign but disgrace, 
oppression, and imbecility. Of all the extortions, how- 
ever, by which this Khalifate had been distinguished, 
the exaction of merriment at the present crisis, when 
there was hardly one genuine smile in circulation, was 
certainly the unfairest that could possibly be levied. 

' It was' (as one of the satirists of that day remarked) 
' like calling upon a man for a song when he was under 
the hands of the tooth-drawer.' There was no evading 



368 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

it however: the anniversary must be kept with re- 
joicing, and orders were given to the several Emirs, 
Imaums, &c., &c., to suppress all insurrectionary sighs, 
and to see that no face was lengthened below the 
orthodox standard. Among other ceremonies of the 
day, the chief merchants of the city were invited to a 
sumptuous banquet by the Vizier, who, having assured 
them in the course of a loyal and figurative speech that 
his gracious master, Al Mostasem Billah, was ' the nut- 
meg of comfort and rose of delight,' begged leave to 
trouble them, in the name of the said rose and nutmeg, 
for the small sum of five hundred dinars, just to meet the 
extraordinary exigencies of the times. The ease with 
which the rich fools of that city and other cities have 
allowed themselves to be melted down into the coffers 
of royalty, has led some curious philosophers to suspect 
that Moses must have made use of aqua regia when 
he dissolved the golden calf of the Israelites. To 
crown the glories of this memorable day the Khalif's 
chief poet and secretary had prepared a few hundred 
of neat, sharp, epigrams, which were stuck upon arrows 
and shot into the enemy's camp (like that pointed 
Philippic of old directed to the right eye of the Mace- 
donian), and it was supposed in the first circles that 
Holagu could not possibly survive them. The doctors 
of the Sonna were, of course, not idle upon this oc- 
casion ; indeed who ever saw them idle when a prince 
was to be flattered, a heretic damned, or a good feast 
attended ? Many of the mosques were thrown open to 
strangers, and discourses in honour of the day delivered 
by the leading sectaries, which gave C an oppor- 
tunity of hearing two of their most celebrated Sonnites, 
whose eloquence was said to have the power of keeping 
even the Khalif awake. 

He found, however, that curses against the Shiites 



A FRAGMENT. 369 

were the most stimulating figures of rhetoric, with 
which these orators embellished their harangues. ' It 
is true,' said one of them, ' that these heretics hold 
faith in the Koran ; but then they impiously deny that 
it is uncreated and eternal, thus derogating from the 
dignity of that sacred book, by supposing that, like 
other books, it must have had an author ! It is granted 
that they believe in one Grod and his prophet, but then 
have they not embraced the vile opinion of the Mota- 
galites, that though Grod knoweth all things, it is not by 
his knowledge he knoweth them, but by a method of 
knowing which he possessed long before his knowledge 
existed ? ' Such were the rational differences of opinion 
for which the people thought it worth while to cut 
each other's throats. c Merciful prophet ! ' exclaimed a 
second, 6 can a reprobate without a hair on his chin 
ever hope for the kisses of a Houri ? Can the unwashed 
toes of a Shiite ever pass the sharp bridge into Paradise ? 
No, certainly my friends ! I have heartfelt satisfaction 
in informing you that the learned Griafar Effendi has 
succeeded in proving by no less than seventy passages 
in the Koran that the whole race of Shiites will be 
damned to all eternity ! ' 

This language, it must be owned, was not of the 
most festal complexion, and indeed, between the au- 
thorized arrogance of one party, and the hidden, but 
combustible indignation of the other, it was dreaded 
by many that this day of rejoicing would have but a 
sad and sanguinary termination. The sun, however, had 
gone down without witnessing anything worse than the 
smiles of those who lived by slavery, and the frowns of 
a few who would die to get rid of it. The calm and 
solitude of the streets seemed to promise a night of 

more than usual tranquillity, when C stole out 

from the college of Al Mostanseriah in order to attend 

B B 



370 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

the appointment which he had made with Haluta on 
the night of her alarm in the ruins of the nunnery. 
His heart was bent upon a much sweeter pursuit than 
the intriguing of courtiers and the wrangling of 
sectaries, when in passing by a mosque in a retired part 
of the city, he heard a murmur like that of an agitated 
multitude when the first breath of discord begins to 
put its waves into motion. The licence of the day 
encouraged him to enter, and the confusion of the 
assembly with which he mingled would at all events 
have secured him from observation. An interval of 
silence succeeded, and he found that this sensation was 
produced by the oratory of a Sonnite doctor, who sur- 
passed his preaching predecessors of the morning, as 
much in virulence of feeling as in splendour of abili- 
ties, and who breathed in eloquence worthy of angels a 
spirit of persecution which would disgrace the fiends. 

Never had it entered into C 's head that genius 

could be at the same time so bright and so mischievous. 
The audience alternately listened and murmured, as 
their taste was charmed or their passions excited ; nor 
did their admiration of the orator's manner divert them 
in the least from their attention to his matter, for the 
graces of his style were such as are felt without being 
considered ; the force of the appeal was acknowledged 
at the same moment that its beauty was admired, and 
those chains which the Grellic deity of eloquence is 
represented to have hung between his lips and the ears 
of his auditors, were in this case such rapid conductors 
of conviction, that the flash and the shock were felt at 
the same instant. At length the fire of fanaticism rose 
to its height, a sympathy of madness spread over the 
crowd ; every scimitar, as if by signal, leaped from its 
scabbard, and. the whole assembly rushed from the 
mosque, shouting, ' Vengeance on the accursed Shiites ! ' 



A FRAGMENT. 371 

The orator who had aroused them was at their head, 

and, as he passed the place where C stood, the 

youth thought that he could recognise the very same 
features which he had seen by the light of the caldron 
on the night of Haluta's adventure in the ruins. It 
might, he felt, be imagination, but still the face was of 
that singular character, which it was impossible to 
forget or confound with any other, and though it was 
now more agitated by passion than when he had ob- 
served it in the chapel, yet its expression was height- 
ened without being altered, and the same spirit now 
guided the storm, which had before hung brooding 
over the calm. He did not, however, give his mind 
time to discuss the probability of the idea, but, escap- 
ing as well as he could from the bigoted crowd, and 
sending a look full of scorn and indignation after them, 
as they hurried away ripe for all the horrors which 
fanatical fury can invent, he resumed the course from 
which he had been diverted, and in a short time found 
himself in the arms of Haluta. 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 

WE have hitherto spoken of the loves of C and 

Haluta, as if love had really a considerable share in 
their intercourse : but those who know the difference 
between gallantry and attachment are well aware how 
little expenditure of affection is necessary to the main- 
tenance of the former kind of feeling, and that the 
loose coin of the senses is quite sufficient for the pur- 
pose, without encroaching upon the capital of the heart. 

B B 2 



372 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

Haluta indeed mingled (as women generally do) a 
more sentimental degree of interest with the bewilder- 
ment which the young Christian produced ; but ambi- 
tion had too great a share in her soul, for even Love 
himself to possess it exclusively, and though the soften- 
ing society of the seraglio, and the luxurious accom- 
plishments which she learned there, had given to her 
thoughts a certain tone of tenderness, which her ad- 
venture with C was every way calculated to cherish, 

yet she had never for an instant lost sight of that proud 
elevation to which learning and intellect seemed to 
raise her above the mere vegetating beauties of her sex, 
and the only time that the Emir, in his few visits to 
the seraglio, did her the honour of selecting her from 
the lovely group, she had nearly got into disgrace by 
asking him in an unlucky moment, whether he knew 
how to calculate the almuten of a nativity. Even with 

C , who was not so easily puzzled, her astronomical 

knowledge was sometimes rather unseasonably intro- 
duced, and more than once he had the mortification to 
find that himself was not the only ascendant that 
occupied her. 

On the night, however, at which we have just 
arrived, whether from a vague presentiment that their 
joys would be soon interrupted, or from a loyal desire 
to celebrate the anniversary by those best of all possible 
feux de joie, which are lighted up in the eyes of beauty, 
she received him with even fonder enthusiasm than on 
the first evening of their intercourse, and the learning 
of past times, and the pain of future ones, were all 
forgotten in the fall happiness of the present. Before 
they parted, she pointed to a ring, the stone of which 
had just broken to pieces upon her finger, and said, 
' When I was a child, in my father's house, a magician 
gave me this ring, in which he had set a precious 



A FRAGMENT. 



373 



drop that fell from a tree of stone in the grotto of 
Antiparos. This gem he had constellated with won- 
derful skill, and it was destined, he told me, to fly to 
pieces the moment I should taste the highest bliss ! of 
which my heart is capable. Farewell,' said she sadly, 
6 1 have now seen my happiest moment ! ' 2 

It was long after midnight when C returned 

towards Bagdat. The streets which had been so solitary 
during the evening, were now swarming with busy and 
baleful animation, while the noise of arms, the moving 
to and fro of torches, the shouts of triumph, and now 
and then the yell of despair, most direfully announced 
to him, as he approached, the spirit of fury that was 
abroad. Shocked by the contrast which these horrors 
presented to the scene of romantic endearments which 
he had left, and indifferent, as far as humanity would 
allow him, to the fate of either of the conflicting 
parties, C was hastening home with all the bed- 
ward propensity of a man who had been too happy to 
do anything but sleep upon his happiness, when a party 
of fugitive Shiites rushed by him in all the consterna- 
tion of flight and discomfiture, some of them falling 
faint with the wounds they had just received, yet 
anxiously looking back while they fell, as if they 
dreaded what followed them still worse than death. 
Not even this spectacle, distressing as it was, could 
tempt the youth to swerve from his drowsy neutrality, 
till, on going a little further, he beheld an unfortunate 
man, whom by his red turban he knew to be a Shiite, 
almost overpowered beneath the swords of four able- 
bodied believers in the Sonna. All the blood of the 
knight was roused at the cowardly unfairness of this 

1 ' Happiest feeling ' was the original reading. 

2 The original reading, which is erased, stood as follows : ' I 
have now passed the bright meridian of my existence I ' 



374 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

encounter : without waiting to invoke one saint in the 
calendar, he flew to the aid of the red-turbaned warrior, 
and soon made his antagonists feel the vigour of a 
young Christian polemic. The heretic, finding himself 
reinforced, returned to the charge most manfully, and 
two of the Sonnites fell beneath their united prowess. 
But just as the remaining two were on the point of 
surrendering, a stone, which was flung either from a 
window, or from a sling in the distant crowd, laid the 

brave Shiite breathless upon the ground, and left C 

to continue the combat single-handed. He was not, 
however, dismayed, though, by the resurrection of one 
of his former adversaries, the odds against him were 
now seriously increased ; but placing himself before the 
body of his prostrate ally, he wielded his weapon with 
such irresistible activity, that in a short time he dis- 
persed the three Islamite confederates. He who had 
ventured upon the experiment of rising again to the 
contest, soon found it more prudent to return to his 
state of repose, and the other two fled towards a mob 
which was collecting at a distance. 

There was now no time to be lost ; the Sonnites were 

assembling in all directions, and as C had none of 

the zeal of those martyrs who have died for opinions 
which they did not understand,, he thought he had 
risked quite enough in the cause of Shiitism, and was 
preparing to secure his retreat, but, not deeming it 
altogether heroic to leave his wounded on the field, at 
the mercy of the enemy, he stooped to examine the 
state of the poor overthrown heretic, and had the satis- 
faction to find that he was little more than stunned by 
the blow, and that there was still life enough in his 
heart to bid defiance to all the curses of the orthodox. 

The bravery of the man had so interested C , 

that this discovery made him sincerely happy, and 



A FRAGMENT. 375 

though the Shiite was not of the most portable stature, 
yet the zeal of humanity, and the urgency of the 
moment, gave nerve to the arms of the youth, and 
wings to his feet, and having placed the helpless sectary 
upon his shoulders, he flew with him through a retired 
street, which presented itself, till they were quite be- 
yond the reach of the multitude. Here, laying down 
his burden beneath the porch of a mosque, where some 
wanderers of the night had left a burning torch, he 
proceeded to wipe off the blood and dust from the 
face of the Shiite, and, upon viewing him more closely, 
he beheld, to his unspeakable astonishment, the very 
same countenance which had already twice haunted him 
with its almost supernatural expression, that coun- 
tenance, which on the evening before, he had seen 
lighted up with fanatical rage against the very sect 
in whose cause he had now found him combating so 
heroically. 

We sometimes meet with not only faces, but events, 
which, though conscious that it is the first time they 
could possibly have occurred to us, yet we cannot help 
feeling as if they had already passed before us in some 
dream, or been anticipated by a kind of second-sight 
power of the imagination, exactly in the way they are 
then really presented to us. 

The impression upon C 's mind, however, was 

something more than this mere fanciful recollection, 
and the circumstances already connected with these 
extraordinary features were too striking and wonderful, 
he thought, not to leave an infallible remembrance of 
them. At the same time the strange inconsistency of 
the characters under which this singular personage had 
appeared, seemed to him such a monstrous and irrecon- 
cilable mystery, that he almost judged it safer to dis- 
trust the very evidence of his senses than to surrender 



376 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

his reason to the belief of such unaccountable contra- 
dictions. While his mind was engaged in these re- 
flections, the Shiite had gradually recovered himself, 
and, after laying his hand for a short time across his 
forehead, as if to recollect the events of the night, he 
looked up in the face of the youth, who hung in silent 
watchfulness over him, and, with an eye that seemed 
versed in the various cipher of the human countenance, 
surveyed his features for a moment, and then hastily 
made an effort to rise. When he found himself upon 
his knees, he turned solemnly towards the East, where 
the first light of the sun was just beginning to appear, 
and, raising his sword, which he had held fast during the 
whole of the adventure, thrice laid the blade across his 
breast, and thrice extended it towards Heaven, pro- 
nouncing each time some words of invocation or prayer, 

which he muttered in a tone too low for C to 

distinguish their meaning. This ceremony being 
ended, he rose, but it was evident that the conflict of 
the night had exhausted even the vigour of his powerful 
frame, and that the effort which he now made to move 
with a rapid step was merely the impatience of a 
sanguine spirit unaccustomed to be checked by the 
infirmity of the machine that carried it, and indignantly 
endeavouring to rise above the weakness of mortality. 

C , upon perceiving this, though awed and almost 

repelled by his looks, respectfully followed, and offered 
the assistance of his arm, which this proud and mys- 
terious man seemed mortified to think he must either 
accept, or lie fainting and exposed upon the pathway. 
Before, however, he consented to entrust himself to the 
youth, he again looked long and intensely at him, as if 
to take the last soundings of his soul before he embarked 
his fate upon its faith for ever. 

The young man blushed, and not because his heart 



A FRAGMENT. 377 

was ashamed of being read (for there were few of a fairer 
type and character), bat because this hesitation implied 
a doubt of which his generous nature deeply felt the 
injustice. The result of the scrutiny however, was 
confidence. The Shiite took his arm with a readiness 
which resembled cordiality, and they proceeded along 
their way in silence. 

The sun had risen, but the quarter of the city 
through which they passed was but little frequented, 
and the few persons whom they met were of that un ob- 
serving class of mankind, who are too much occupied 
with their own little parts upon the stage of life to 
have any leisure or inclination for becoming spectators 
of others. They accordingly continued their way in 
silence, till they reached the gate of a simple mansion, 

which was known to C to have been the mansion 

of the celebrated scholar Nassireddin, who had lately 
deserted from the service of the Khalif, and gone over 
to the enemy with the whole force of his library. Here 
the Shiite stopped, and looking anxiously round him, 
unlocked a little door beside the gate, and beckoned to 

the youth to follow him. Though C 's heart knew 

as little of fear as those who live beneath the line know 
of frost and snow, yet it was not without a feeling of 
awe that he heard the door close after him, and found 
himself alone with a person, in whose manner, looks 
and conduct, there was something so grand, so por- 
tentous and inexplicable. They passed through the 
house into one of those delightful gardens, in which the 
pious and contemplative Orientals love to pass their 
hours of thought and devotion, and where the incense 
of prayer and the breath of flowers ascend to heaven 
most sweetly together. The spirit of the morning 
played freshly among the blossoms, and the air seemed 
to breathe new life into the Shiite, who suddenly turning 



378 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

round, demanded in a solemn voice, c Young stranger ! 
who art thou ? ' 

A few very modest words were sufficient to satisfy 
this inquiry ; what the diffidence of the relator sup- 
pressed the discernment of the hearer supplied, and 

when C said that he had fought and that he had 

studied, the gallantry of his air and the intelligence of 
his eye abundantly testified that he had done neither 
in vain. 

When he had finished his short and simple history, 
the Shiite, after a few moments' pause, addressed him 
thus : ' To say that you have saved my life, young man, 
would be to wrong that star of destiny which was born 
with me, and which must light me through many such 
scenes of danger ere the mission upon which I am sent 
shall be accomplished. With gratitude, however, do 
I acknowledge the promptitude with which you gave 
assistance through that passing cloud of weakness which 
came over me, and the confidence I am about to repose 
in you is the first and noblest return that ever I can 
make for such a service. Though a stranger, you 
scarcely require to be told that the days of Bagdat 
are almost numbered, and that the moment is at hand 
when the proud rulers and profligate citizens must pay 
the full penalty of their crimes and corruptions. The 
would-be sages of this world may sigh over the ruin 
of her throne, the extinction of her schools, and the 
bloody profanation of her temples ; but to him who 
has well observed the fated vicissitudes of all things, 
who has traced the whole length of that mystic chain 
of which creation and destruction still form the alter- 
nate links, to him the declension of glories that have 
been is but the dawn of a new and a better era, and he 
sees in the fragments of fallen empires but the precious 
materials of brighter and more harmonious systems. 



A FRAGMENT. 379 

As the deluge that sweeps away and the earthquake 
that rends asunder are the terrible agents that have en- 
riched our earth with the mountains in magnificent 
swell, and the smiling cultivation of the valley, so by 
the convulsions of the moral world, the powers of the 
human mind are roused, exalted and diversified ; and that 
man does not ill perform the ends of his being (however 
he may be mistaken by the short-sighted multitude) 
who assists in ameliorating the crisis of that chaos from 
whose anarchy order and beauty are destined to arise.' 

Observing that the youth was startled at this sen- 
timent, he said : ' Such thoughts, however, are far 
beyond the ken of the uninitiated, and at this moment 
a private feeling presses upon my heart, for which the 
grander views of my soul must be for awhile forgotten 
or postponed. I have a treasure within these walls 
which few eyes have ever beheld, and of which, though 
my heart can feel, my tongue cannot tell the value. 
In the dreadful scenes through which it is my lot to 
pass, the thought of this object and the dangers to 
which it is exposed, is the only spell that unnerves 
my arm, and dries up the very fount of enterprise 
within me. In a few days the fate of Bagdat will be 
awfully decided, and when once that direful storm is 
abroad which my spirit hath collected and my arm 
must guide, who shall answer for the safety of the trea- 
sured form, in which the only pure hopes of my life are 
deposited ? Who can be assured that while I wander 
upon my ministry of terror, some faithless hand may 
not violate this privacy and steal away the sole dear 
gem of my existence ? 

' Young stranger, the voice of my genius whispers 
me that thou art the person destined to shelter this 
flower from the storm, and oh I if fidelity be the soul 
of knighthood, and if the fulness of confidence be the 



380 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

sweetest triumph of the generous heart, come and 
behold what a blessing I entrust to thee, and then 
own how amply I repay what thou hast done for me.' 
Having said this, he walked towards the door of a 
retired oratory, which hung over a bright little stream 
at the end of the garden, like that cool place of silence 
and prayer which the poet Hafiz loved, beside the 
waters of Rosaabad. 

The youth, with a heart all prepared for wonders, 
followed till they arrived at the entrance of this fairy 
mansion, when the Shiite turning round, made a sign 
to him to pause, while he himself gently lifted the 

latch and looked in ; he then beckoned to C- and 

they both stole on tiptoe into the oratory. During those 
very few moments the youth could employ in consider- 
ing the nature of the treasure about to be exhibited to 
him, a variety of conjectures had floated before his 
fancy, but he concluded at length, that the language 
of the Shiite was symbolical, and that this gem of his 
existence, this 6 flower,' this ' depository of his hopes,' 
must be some magic secret, some talisman, perhaps, 
imbued with the beams of that star which he had said 
was twinned with him by destiny, or perhaps was a 
phial of that concentrated essence of life, every drop of 
which was supposed by the Arabian enchanters to have 
the power of adding a century to man's existence. Nor 
did he quite mistake. It was indeed a talisman which 
heaven had filled with brighter and purer influences 
than ever the stars could shed. It was indeed that 
concentrated balm of our being, whose spirit is purity, 
whose taste is love, and which more than prolongs 
existence by sweetening it. It was a young and 
beautiful girl reclining in that calm sleep which 'is 
seldom slept but by children or by angels. Yet the 
day-dress which she wore, and the appearance of the 



A FRAGMENT. 381 

sofa, upon which she seemed to have only thrown her- 
self for a momentary slumber, looked rather like the 
wakeful preparation of one who dreaded surprise. Her 
hair, which had escaped from the silken net that bound 
it, fell in dark waves over her neck, which glimmered 
through it here and there like moonlight through an 
almond grove. Her lips were half opened, with a kind 
of speaking air, as if slumber had overtaken them in 
the midst of some sweet sentence, and though her eyes 
were shut, yet their light still lingered over her features 
as in those summer nights of the North, where the 
sky at eve hardly feels the absence of the sun, whose 
brilliancy is only softened, not lost, by his setting. 

She appeared to be about seventeen, that fresh and 
lovely age, which when Hebe herself hath passed, she is 
near being no longer Hebe ; and in every part of her 
form there lay a thousand slumbering graces, which 
awaited but the motions of her waking to give them 
animation and to bring them into play. It was but a 

moment, however, that C was permitted to look 

upon these inanimate beauties, which even in the ab- 
sence of consciousness seemed to blush of themselves 
at the gaze to which they were exhibited. Twice did 
the Shiite wave his hand before the youth could under- 
stand that it was meant as a signal to depart ; at 
length, scarcely venturing to breathe, they both stole 
back into the garden. 

c Oh tell me ' (exclaimed the youth), when they 
were at some little distance from the oratory, 'tell 
me ' 

But the Shiite repressed his impatience and said : 
' The morning is far advanced, the multitudes of 
Bagdat are abroad ; even now it is not without risk that 
thou wilt leave these suspected walls; but return hither 
at nightfall and all shall be explained to thee. Come 



382 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

not unless thy heart is ready to shed its last blood for 
her who now slumbers within that oratory.' 

As he spoke these words they arrived at the outer 
gate of the mansion. Without allowing a moment for 

reply he hastily unlocked the door, and C , as if 

awakened from an eventful dream, found himself once 
more in the streets of Bagdat. 



CHAPTER VII. 

THEEE had been bloodshed in many parts of the city 
during the night, and though in every instance the 
Sonnites were the aggressors, yet as the Shiites had 
shown a rather over-presumptuous inclination to de- 
fend themselves, the fault was of course all laid upon 
them, and the minister declared that nothing better 
could be expected from men who disbelieved the 
Chapter of the Blanket. In order to quiet the appre- 
hensions of the loyal, it was announced by an official 
bulletin in the morning, that the Khalif had slept very 
soundly during the whole of these unnatural distur- 
bances, and he was waited upon accordingly with 
numerous congratulations upon the powers of sleeping 
which Providence had given him, and the dignity with 
which he could repose amidst the clamours and dis- 
sensions of his subjects. The Khalif 's ministers, too, 
were not a little pleased at the timely respite which 
this commotion gave them from the troublesome criti- 
cism of an oppressed people ; though indeed it was 
not the first time that they had profited by this kind 
of diversion, for like cuttle-fish they could only hope to 
escape by darkening impurely the waters around them ; 
and though the people of Bagdat were a thinking 



A FRAGMENT. 383 

people (at least, though they thought themselves a 
thinking people), yet there were not a few amid a sober 
set of citizens, who could play the fool at a minute's 
warning, with perfect satisfaction to their rulers. 

* It is true,' (said the Vizier in his last annual 
speech upon prosperity), ' it is true that we have lost 
an army or two by the unfair attacks of that abortion 
Holagu, who, contrary to the practice of all well-bred 
generals, will not even give us a clue to his tactics, or 
a chance of beating him ; but to make up for this I am 
happy to congratulate the good people of Bagdat upon 
the brilliant success which has crowned the Khalif's 
arms in the late attack upon a caravan of European 
pilgrims, whom our brave troops surprised in the 
middle of their evening service, and put to death in the 
coolest and most soldier-like manner. Thirty Christian 
corpses, not to mention as many witch-shells, wigs, and 
prayer-books, are among the spoils of this memorable 
enterprise, in consideration of which it is the will of 
the sovereign Khalif, that the general who performed 
this important service shall be called, styled, and 
accounted a hero, not only by himself and his whole 
family, but by all the well-affected citizens of Bagdat, 
during the term of said hero's natural life.' 

Eejoicings took place for the destruction of the 
caravan, and this speech of the Vizier's was very much 
admired. It was resolved that the new-made hero 
should be sent to chastise the insolence of the upstart 
Holagu. Upon another occasion these wise ministers 
of the Khalifate had succeeded in diverting the public 
attention, by inflicting the bastinado on a worthy natu- 
ralist who had taken the liberty of objecting to a certain 
breed of rats to which the Khalif was supposed to have 
a very strong predilection, and which at all events he 
had suffered to propagate so abundantly, that not only 



384 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

the palace, but all Bagdat, was overrun with them. 
The naturalist in question not only objected to these 
animals, but even suggested a mode by which the entire 
race could be extirpated easily. The whole court took 
alarm, and the Iinaum Kossy was ordered, at the peril of 
his place, to write a book forthwith in defence of the 
rats, and to prove that the holes which they made in 
the palace were of the greatest possible use to the 
building. The naturalist was rash enough to answer 
the Imaum. The Imaum replied by a smart bastinado, 
and the twenty-first stroke convinced the naturalist 
that the rats were the most amiable and serviceable 
creatures in the world. 

The events of the preceding night were already 
beginning to be forgotten, though the sun had hardly 
passed his meridian resting-place. The courtiers and the 
eunuchs were recovering their courage, the doctors of the 
Sonna were regaining their appetite and spirits, and the 
Khalif himself was near relapsing into the pious belief 
that he reigned over a most happy and united people, 

when C proceeded to the little villa of Masud, on 

the Tigris, to take a long farewell of Masud and the 
library, and prepare for his new and interesting charge, 
which now occupied every thought of his soul. He was 
met by his servant Diarmid, whose heart he truly re- 
joiced by desiring- him to prepare for leaving Bagdat that 
evening. This poor fellow, ever since his arrival in the 
city, had from motives of safety assumed the Arabian 
habits, but the difficulties in which this disguise in- 
volved him on the preceding night, had not only put 
him quite out of conceit with his costume, but had 
quickened his migratory instincts amazingly, and he 
heard the intelligence of their departure with delight. 

'Only think, sir,' said he, relating the adventures 
of the night to his master, ; I was seized in returning 



A FRAGMENT. 385 

to the college by two of those unchristianlike fellows, 
called Sonnites, who, thrusting their torches in my face, 
said they could tell by the colour of my nose that I was 
in the habit of mixing wine with my water, which 
showed that I was a Shiite, a damnable Shiite. In 
vain did I protest that I was no such thing, that I 
always took my wine as pure and unmixed as I could 
get it, and that the child unborn was not more innocent 
of spoiling good liquor with water than I was. This 
seemed but to make those Mohametan dogs more angry, 
and they began to lay about me with their burning 
brands so unmercifully that I had every prospect of 
being lighted up into an auto-da-fe immediately. I 
had nothing now left me but to run for it, so off I set 
with this pair of pious persecutors at my heels, till, as 
good luck would have it, at the turning of a corner I 
saw the door of an old Nestorian convent open, and, 
rushing in without ceremony, gave the slip to my 
enlightened pursuers. Here I found an old monk, who, 
perceiving I was frightened and breathless, pointed 
kindly to a little bed in the corner where I might rest 
and recover from rny alarms. This was exactly what I 
wanted, and I had just begun to doze very comfortably 
when a noise in the street startled me. " Mother 
of Grod!" exclaimed I, "what's that?" "Oh, ho!" 
says the Nestorian, " is that your creed ? Mother of 
God, indeed! here is a pretty blasphemer, truly, to 
insult our sacred walls with such expressions. Mother 
of Grod, indeed ! Out of my doors this instant, vile 
follower of Cyril ! " in saying which he thrust me forth 
into the street, muttering something about Judas and 
the Council of Ephesus, which was all as comprehensible 
to me as so much Hebrew. I was now again left at the 
mercy of all the various believers of Bagdat, and the 
worst of it was 1 had lost my way. In short, sir,' said 

c c 



386 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 

he, seeing that his master grew impatient of the story, 
' I might have wandered till now, or been put even 
more roughly through my catechism by some of these 
amiable religionists, if I had not met with a com- 
passionate fellow, who, without asking whether I was 
Turk or Christian, took me home to his house and gave 
me shelter and protection till morning. He told me 
when I was leaving he belonged to the sect of the 
Schoubaat, who think they are as wise as the Shiites or 
Sonnites, and by his own showing are as ignorant fools 
as either.' 

It was not without a feeling of tender regret that 

C took leave of the quiet little study where he 

had passed so many hours of calm communion with the 
silent spirits of the departed wise and good. Perhaps 
by him who truly loves books those moments of in- 
tellectual repose which he has enjoyed in their company 
are remembered with a better, a more unalloyed pleasure 
than all his brilliantest hours of intercourse with the 
gay, the wise, the witty, or even the beautiful. He 
could not help too thinking (notwithstanding the 
chivalrous and romantic sentiment with which he now 
devoted himself to the service of another), he could not 
help thinking with many an anxious sigh upon the 
fate to which poor Haluta might be doomed amidst 
the ruin and confusion that hung over Bagdat. He 
had never loved her, but there is something in the 
recollection of pleasures as well as of dangers which 
seldom fails to attach us to those who have shared them 
with us, and there was a wild enthusiasm in the cha- 
racter of this extraordinary woman, which the very 
thought of the errors it might lead her into was sufficient 
to render strongly interesting. 

His armour was brightened up for the first time 
since he had bathed it in Saracen blood at the battle of 



A FRAGMENT. 387 

the Ashmim^ And as he put it on he prayed that, for 
her in whose cause he wore it, his heart might be chaste 
as his arm was strong, and that selfish passion should 
never tempt him to forget that the purest and gentlest 
duties of chivalry were the disinterested service of the 
fair, and the unpresuming protection of the innocent. 
He had taken it for granted, without exactly knowing 
why, that the sleeper in the oratory was the daughter 
of the Shiite. Her youth, and the age of her mys- 
terious protector, who had already passed the summer 
of manhood, had but little of the air of those sighing 
veterans who seem to think that the evening sun of life 
sets most comfortably upon the bosom of a youthful 
Thetis all led him to conclude what his heart too 
perhaps rather wished, that the smile of parental love 
was the warmest she had ever encountered. It was 
dusk when he hastened towards the mansion of Nasser- 
eddin, and having ordered Diarmid to wait for him in 
some quarter of the neighbourhood, he soon found out 
the little gate which had made such an impression on 
his memory, and which had led him the night before 
to as beautiful a vision as ever played round the ivory 
portals of sleep. He had not stood there very long 
when he perceived a remarkable figure passing back- 
wards and forwards on the opposite side of the street, 
and, as well as he could distinguish through the dusk, 
looking towards him now and then rather anxiously, 
apprehensive lest he might betray the haunt of his 
mysterious acquaintance. He passed on, but the 
figure which he had noticed followed him, and it was 
not till they came within a few paces of each other 
that he perceived it was the Shiite himself, who had 
been upon the watch for him. The youth now threw 
aside the cloak that hid his shining armour, which the 
Shiite observing, approached him and said : c Welcome, 

c c 2 



3 88 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET. 

knight : in this habit thou art most welcome ; that 
garb inspires a sacred confidence which I trust its 
young wearer will never betray. There is a pledge of 
purity in the white plume of a Christian knight, which 
blood may steep, but dishonour never tinges. In an 
hour or two hence thou must fly with my Amera from 
Bagdat to a retreat I have chosen which she will point 
out.' 

[Cetera desuntJ] 



LETTERS. 



LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 

LETTER I. 1 

On receiving a letter and some books. 

[1811.] 

MY DEAR SIR, I am just about to step into the 
mail for a week's absence from town, and have only 
time to say that I have received your letter, which I 
have read with gratitude and admiration. How you, 
who write so much in public, can afford to write so 
well in private, is miraculous. I shall take your books 
with me, and hope to tell you all I think and feel 
about them at Beckenham. 

Bury Street, Monday Evening. 

LETTER II. 

On Mr. Moore's Opera o/l/.P., or The Blue-stocking ; 
Mr. Leigh Hunt's Feast of the Poets, fyc. 

[Post-mark, 1811.] 

MY DEAR SIR, It was my intention upon receiv- 
ing the last letter with which you favoured me, to 
answer it by a visit, and that immediately ; but I was 
hurried oif to the country by the sickness of a friend ; 
and since my return I have been occupied in a way 
that makes me very unfit society for you, namely, 
in writing bad jokes for the galleries of the Lyceum. 

1 The italics in all the following letters are the writer's own. 



392 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 

To make the galleries laugh is in itself sufficiently de- 
grading, but to try to make them laugh and fail (which 
I fear will be my destiny) is deplorable indeed. The 
secret of it however is, that, upon my last return from 
Ireland, in one of those moments of weakness to which 
poets and their purses are too liable, I agreed to give 
Arnold a piece for the summer, and you may perceive 
by the lateness of my appearance, with what reluctance 
I have performed my engagement. 

It will no doubt occur to you, upon reading the first 
page of this note, that the whole purport of it is to ask 
for mercy ; but the kind terms in which you have 
spoken of some things I have written, make me too- 
much interested in your sincerity to ask for, or ivish, 
the slightest breach of it. I have no doubt that in 
this instance you will treat me with severity, and I am 
just as sure that, if you do, I shall have deserved it. Only 
say that you expected something better from me, and 
I shall be satisfied. 

I must (though late) thank you for your last Reflec- 
tor. The poem to which you were good enough to direct 
my attention interested me extremely ; there is nothing 
so delightful as those alternate sinkings and risings, 
both of feeling and style, which you have exhibited in 
those verses, and you cannot think how gracefully it 
becomes the high philosophy of your mind to saunter 
now and then among the flowers of poetry. Do in- 
dulge her with a few more walks, I beseech you. 

I am afraid you look upon me as a bad politician, 
or you would likewise have bid me read the fine article, 
entitled (if I recollect right) 'A Ketrospect of Public 
Affairs.' It is most ably done ; but you write too well 
for a politician, and it is really a pity to go to the 
expense of fulminating gold, when common gunpowder 
serves the purpose just as well. 



LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 393 

I shall not call upon you now till I have passed the 
ordeal ; but till then, and ever, believe me, my dear 
Sir, 

Yours with much esteem, 

THOMAS MOORE. 

Bury Street, Saturday. 

The fragment which Carpenter told you I had for 
the Reflector was wickedly political. Some of the allu- 
sions have now lost their hold, but you shall see it, and 
perhaps something may, with your assistance, be yet 
made of it. 



LETTER III. 
On M.P., or The Blue-stocking. 

MY DEAR SIR, I have not the least fear that you 
will make any ungenerous use of the anxiety which I 
express with respect to your good opinion of me. I 
dare say you have read in The Times of yesterday the 
very well-written, and (I confess) but too just account 
which they give of the shooting of my fooVs-bolt on 
Monday. The only misrepresentation I can accuse them 
of (and that I feel very sensibly) is the charge of Royal- 
ism and courtiership which they have founded upon 
my foolish clap-trap with respect to the Regent ; this- 
has astonished me the more, as the Opera underwent a 
very severe cutting from the Licenser for a very opposite 
quality to courtiership, and it is merely lest you should 
be led into a mistake (from the little consideration you 
can afford to give to such nonsense) that I trouble you 
with this note. 

If the child's plea, ' I'll never do so again,' could 
soften criticism, I may be depended upon from this 
moment for a most hearty abjuration of the stage, and 



394 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 

all its heresies of pun, equivoque, and claptrap : however 
humble I may be in other departments of literature, I 
am quite conscious of being contemptible in this. 
Yours, my dear Sir, very truly, 

THOMAS MOORE. 

27 Bury Street, Wednesday. 

Did you receive a note I sent you about a week 
ago? 

LETTER 1Y. 

On the Feast of the Poets ; Lord Moira, fyc. 

[Post-mark, August 1812.] 

MY DEAR SIR, I am sorry to find by your Ex- 
aminer of last Sunday that you are ill, and I sincerely 
hope, both for the sake of yourself and the world, that 
it is not an indisposition of any serious nature. I have 
very often since I left town had thoughts of writing to 
you ; not that I had anything to say, but merely to 
keep myself alive In your recollection, till some lucky 
jostle in our life's journey throws us closer together 
than we have hitherto been. It is not true, however, 
that I have had nothing to say to you, for I have to 
thank you for your poem in the Reflects, which I 
would praise for its beauty, if my praises could be thought 
disinterested enough to please you but it has won my 
heart rather too much to leave my judgment fair play ; 
and the pleasure of being praised by you makes me in- 
capable of returning the compliment : all that I can tell 
you is, that your good opinion of me in general is paid 
back with interest tenfold, and that my thoughts about 
you are so well known to those I live with, that I have the 
pleasure of finding you acknowledged among them by no 
other title than ' Moore's Friend.' I suppose you have 
heard that I suddenly burst upon my acquaintances last 



LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 395 

spring, in the new characters of husband and father, 
and I hope you will believe me, when I say that (though 
my little intercourse with you might have made such a 
confidence impertinent on my side) I often wished to 
make you one of the very few friends who knew the 
secret of my happiness, and witnessed my enjoyment of 
it. I rather think, too, that if you were acquainted 
with the story of my marriage, it would not tend to 
lower me from that place] which I am proud to believe 
I hold in your esteem. I have got a small house and 
large garden here in the neighbourhood of Lord Moira's 
fine library, and feel happy in the consciousness that I 
have indeed ' mended my notions of pleasure,' and that 
I am likely, after all, to be what men like you approve. 
Mrs. Moore and I have been for these ten days past 
on a visit to our noble neighbour, who is at length pre- 
paring for an old age of independence, by a manly and 
summary system of retrenchment. He has dismissed 
nearly all his servants, and is retiring to a small house in 
Sussex, leaving his park and fine library here to solitude 
and me. How I have mourned over his late negoti- 
ation ! A sword looks crooked in water, and the weak 
medium of Carlton House has given an appearance of 
obliquity even to Lord Moira ; but both the sword and 
he may be depended on still at least I think so. 

I was very much flattered by your taking some 
doggerel of mine out of the Morning Chronicle some 
months since, called c The Insurrection of the Papers.' 
I don't know whether you saw ' The Plumassier ' about 
the same time. It was mine also, but not so good. I 
hope next year, when I have got over a work I am 
about, to help you with a few shafts of ridicule in the 
noble warfare you are engaged in, since I find that you 
have thought some of them not unworthy your notice. 

With best regards to Mrs. Hunt and your little 



396 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 

child, for whom I could supply a companion picture, 
I am, my dear Sir, 

Most truly yours, 

THOMAS MOORE. 

Wednesday. 

I shall take the liberty of paying the postage of 
this, lest it might not be received at the Office. 



LETTER Y. 

On Mr. Hunt's Imprisonment ; Lord Moira, fyc. 

Kegworth, Leicestershire, Thursday. 
[February 1813.] 

MY DEAR SIR, I was well aware that, on the first 
novelty of your imprisonment, you would be over- 
whelmed with all sorts of congratulations and con- 
dolences, and therefore resolved to reserve my tribute 
both of approbation and sympathy, till the gloss of your 
chains was a little gone off, and both friends and starers 
had got somewhat accustomed to them. If I were now 
to tell you half of what I have thought and felt in your 
favour during this period, I fear it would be more than 
you know enough of me to give me credit for ; and I 
shall therefore only say in true Irish phrase and spirit, 
that my heart takes you by the hand most cordially, 
and that I only wish heaven had given me a brother 
whom I could think so well of and feel so warmly about. 
I hope to be in London in about four or five weeks, 
when one of my first visits shall be to Horsemonger 
Lane, and I trust I shall find your restrictions so far 
relaxed as to allow of my not merely looking at you 
through the bars, but passing an hour or two with you 
in your room. 

I have long observed, and (I must confess) wondered 



LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 397 

at your retenue about Lord Moira, and have sometimes 
flattered myself (forgive me for being so vain, and so 
little just, perhaps, to your sense of duty) that a little 
regard for me was at the bottom of your forbearance, 
for you have always struck me as one whom Nature 
never destined ' accusatoriam vitam vivere,' and who, 
if you were to live much among us Lilliputians of this 
world, would soon find your giant limbs entangled with 
a multitude of almost invisible heart-strings ; but be 
this as it may, I must acknowledge (with a candour 
which is wrung from me) that Lord Moira's conduct 
no longer deserves your approbation, and when I say 
this, I trust I need not add, that it no longer has mine. 
His kindnesses to me of course I can never forget, but 
they are remembered as one remembers the kindnesses 
of a faithless mistress, and that esteem, that reverence, 
which was the soul of all, is fled. His though tfulness 
about me, indeed, remained to the last, and in the 
interview which I had with him immediately on his 
coming down here after his appointment, he said that, 
though he had nothing sufficiently good in his Indian 
patronage to warrant my taking such an expensive 
voyage, yet it was in his power, by exchange of 
patronage with Ministers, to serve me at home, and 
that he meant to provide for me in this way : to which 
I answered, with many acknowledgments for his 
friendship, that ' I begged he would not take the 
trouble of making any such application, as I would 
infinitely rather struggle on as I am, than accept of 
anything under such a system.' I must add (because 
it is creditable to him), that this refusal, though so 
significantly conveyed, and still more strongly after- 
wards by letter, did not offend him, and that he con- 
tinued the most cordial attentions to us during the 
remainder of his stay. I know you will forgive this 



398 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 

egotism, and would perhaps trouble you with a little 
more of it, if the unrelenting post-time were not very 
nearly at hand. 



From yours ever, 

THOMAS MOORE. 



LETTER VI. 

Mayfield Cottage, Monday Evening. 
[Post-mark, August 1813.] 

MY DEAR HUNT, 



I hope you see my friend Lord Byron often ; one of 
the very few London pleasures I envy him, is the visit 
to Horsemonger Lane now and then. 

Faithfully yours, 

THOMAS MOORE. 



LETTER VII. 

On the Story of Rimini. 

Mayfield Cottage, March 7, 1814. 

MY DEAR HUNT, I do forgive you for your long 
silence, though you have much less right to be careless 
about our non-intercourse than I have. If I knew as 
little about you and your existence as you know of 
me, I should not feel quite so patient under the priva- 
tion, but I have the advantage of communing with you 
for a very delightful hour every Tuesday evening : of 
knowing your thoughts upon all that passes, and of 
exclaiming ' right ! bravo ! exactly ! ' to every senti- 



LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 399 

merit you express ; whereas, from the very few signs of 
life I give in the world, you can only take my existence 
for granted, as we do that of the' 

little woman under the hill, 
Who, if she's not gone, must live there still. 

However I do forgive you, and only wish I could pay 
you back a millesimal part of the pleasure which, in 
various ways, as poet, as politician, as partial friend, 
you have lately given me. Your ' Eimini ' is beautiful, 
and its only faults such as you are aware of, and pre- 
pared to justify : there is that maiden charm of origin- 
ality about it that 'integer, illibatusque succusj which 
Columella tells us the bees extract ; that freshness 
of the living fount, which we look in vain for in the 
bottled -up Heliconian of ordinary bards ; in short, it 
is poetry and notwithstanding the quaintnesses, the 
coinages, and even affectations, with which, here and 
there 

I had just got so far, my dear Hunt, when I was 
interrupted by a prosing neighbour, who has put every- 
thing I meant to say out of my head ; so, there I must 
leave you, impaled on the point of this broken sentence, 
and wishing you as little torture there as the nature of 
the case will allow. I have only time to say again, 
that your poem is beautiful, and that, if I do not 
exactly agree with some of your notions about versifi- 
cation and language, the general spirit of the work has 
more than satisfied my utmost expectations of you. If 
you go on thus you will soon make some of Apollo's 
guests sit 'below the salt.' The additions to this latter 
poem are excellent, and the lines on Music at the end 
are full of beauty. 

There are many of the lines of 'Eimini' that 'haunt 
me like a passion.' I don't know whether I ought to 



400 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 

own that these are among the number I quote from 
memory : 

The woe was short, was fugitive, is past ! 
The song that sweetens it may always last. 

I am afraid you will set this down among your regular, 
sing-song couplets ; to me it is all music. 

Is it true that your friend Lord B. has taken to the 

beautifully 'mammosa' Mrs. ? Who, after this, 

will call him a ' searcher of dark bosoms ? ' Not a word 
to him, however, about this last question of mine. 
Ever, my dear Hunt, most faithfully yours, 

THOMAS MOORE. 

I hope to deliver my mighty work into Longman's 
hands in May, but of course it will not go to press till 
after the summer. 

LETTER VIII. 

Sloperton Cottage, Devizes, January 21, 1818. 

MY DEAR HUNT, Having the opportunity of a frank, 
I must write you a line or two to thank you for your 
very kind notices of me, and still more to express my 
regret that in my short and busy visits to town, I had 
not the happiness, to which I looked forward, of passing 
at least one day with you and your family. I am 
always so thrown ' in medias res ' when I go to London, 
that I have never a minute left for anything agreeable ; 
but my next visit will, I hope, be one of pleasure, and 
then you are sure to be brought in among the ingre- 
dients. For the cordiality with which you have praised 
and defended me, I am, I assure you, most deeply 
grateful ; and though less alive, I am sorry to say, both 
to praise and blame than I used to be, yet coming from 
a heart and a taste like yours, they cannot fail to touch 



LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 401 

me very sensibly. You are quite right about the con- 
ceits that disfigure my poetry ; but you (and others) are 
quite as wrong in supposing that I hunt after them 
my greatest difficulty is to hunt them away. If you 
had ever been in the habit of hearing Curran converse 
though I by no means intend to compare myself with 
him in the ready coin of wit yet, from the tricks which 
his imagination played him while he talked, you might 
have some idea of the phantasmagoria that mine passes 
before me while I write. In short, St. Anthony's temp- 
tations were nothing to what an Irish fancy has to 
undergo from all its own brood of Will-o'-th' wisps and 
hobgoblins. 

I was sorry to find that Cobbett found such a sturdy 
defender in your correspondent of last week ; indeed, 
I am grieved to the heart at many things I see among 
the friends of liberty, and begin to fear much more 
harm from the advocates of the cause than from its 
enemies. You, however, are always right in politics ; 
and if you would but keep your theories of religion and 
morality a little more to yourself (the MANIA on these 
subjects being so universal and congenital, that he who 
thinks of curing it is as mad as his PATIENTS), you would 
gain influence over many minds that you unnecessarily 
shock and alienate. I would not say this of you in 
public (for I cannot review my friends), but I say it to 
you thus privately, with all the anxious sincerity of 
a well-wisher both to yourself and the cause you so 
spiritedly advocate. I intended to have written you a 
long letter, but the post-belle (an old woman whom I 
employ for that purpose) is ringing her alarum below, 
and I must finish. 

My best regards to Mrs. Hunt. 

Yours very faithfully, 

THOMAS MOORE. 

D D 



402 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 

LETTER IX. 

Sloperton Cottage, Devizes, October 10, 1818. 

MY DEAR HUNT, I intended that a letter from me 
should accompany your copy of the seventh number of 
my ' Melodies ' ; but I rather think, from your paper of 
Sunday last, that Power has had the start of me ; and I 
only write now to get a little credit from you for my 
intentions, which in general, indeed, are the best things 
about me, but which, unfortunately, the matter-of-fact 
people of the world are never satisfied with. As you 
have imagination, however, as well as heart, I shall leave 
you to fancy all the kind things I have felt towards you 
during the long, long time I have passed in saying 
nothing whatever about them ; and I am the more 
inclined just now to trust a good deal to your imagina- 
tive power, as I am disabled from writing much from a 
slight strain in my shoulder which I received the night 
before last when the world was near being a bad poet 
out of pocket by the upsetting of a carriage in which I 
was returning from Bowood. 

Shall you be in London about the latter end of 
November ? I hope to be there about that time, and 
we must meet ; for I have much to say to you, much 
to give and receive sympathy about. I suppose that 
you have heard of the calamity that has befallen me 
through the defalcation of my deputy at Bermuda, who 
has made free with the proceeds of two or three ships 
and cargoes deposited in his hands, and I am likely to 
be made responsible for the amount. You will, it is 
most probable, have an opportunity of returning my 
prison visits ; as, if it comes to the worst, the Rules 
must be my residence. However (as I have just written 
to Lord Byron), Unity of Place is one of Aristotle's 



LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 403 

Rules, and, as a poet, I must learn to conform to it. 
By-the-bye, he has made many inquiries about you in 
his two last letters to me, and I should be glad to hear 
from you before I write to him again. I hope you will 
like my Irish Melodies better than you liked Lalla 
Rookh. 

You were right about the verses to Sir H. Lowe. 
Yours, my dear Hunt, very truly, 

THOMAS MOORE. 



LETTER X. 

Paris, August 20, 1821. 

MY DEAR HUNT, I take the opportunity of a frank 
to send you a hasty line of acknowledgment for your 
kind mention of me. I was indeed most happy to see 
the announcement of your recovery, for public as well 
as private reasons for, though you have right good 
auxiliaries, there is but one Richmond in the field 
after all. 

This is a very delightful place to live in, and if I 
was not obliged to stay in it, I should find the time 
pass happily enough ; for were 

Ev'n Paradise itself my prison, 
Still I should long to leap the crystal walls. 

Your friend Mr. Bowring and I were rather unlucky in 
our attempts to meet, but we did meet at last, and I 
liked him exceedingly. 



D D 2 



404 DUEL WITH JEFFREY. 

THE LATE DUEL. 

To the Editor of The Morning Post. l 

SIR, Though I am conscious how little the affair 
in which I have been lately engaged can merit a 
moment's attention from the public, yet, as some pains 
have been taken to misrepresent the motives and the 
manner of it, I hope I shall be forgiven for addressing 
a few words to you upon the subject. In the first place 
the quarrel is not to be considered as literary. Though 
by no means indifferent to the decrees of criticism, I 
am aware that they are not to be reversed by an appeal 
to the pistol. The review, however, which Mr. Jeffrey 
had written, appeared to me to contain more personality 
than criticism ; to impute to me motives for publica- 
tion which my heart disclaims and detests, and to assail 
me altogether, much more as a man than as a writer. 
Conceiving, therefore, that in the present state of 
manners) no gentleman can hold such language towards 
another with impunity, I returned a contradiction to 
the assertions of Mr. Jeffrey, in terms too plain to be for 
a moment misunderstood, and the meeting, of which 
the public has heard, was the consequence. 

With respect to the ridiculous story about the load- 
ing of the pistols, I shall only say, in addition to the 
declaration of our seconds, who are men not likely to 
prefer the safety of a friend to his honour, that any 
person who takes the trouble of inquiring at Bow Street 
will learn that the pistol which the officer took from me, 
was found, upon examination, to be regularly loaded ; 
though from some accident in the carriage of the pistols 
to town, that of Mr. Jeffrey was without a ball, and 
that the discovery of this circumstance was made a 

1 Morning Post., Monday, August 18, 1806. 



LETTER TO MRS. SHELLEY. 405 

ground for detaining my pistols a day or two after the 
magistrate had consented to restore them. 

I am, Sir, yours, &c., &c., 

T. MOORE. 

Bury Street, St. James's, August 16, 1806. 



TO MBS. SHELLEY 

ON RECEIPT OF HEE COLLECTED EDITION OF SHELLEY'S POEMS- 

April 17, 1839. 

I am quite ashamed of not having acknowledged 
sooner your precious and welcome present, precious 
doubly, as Shelley's work and your gift. I have a horror 
of sitting down to write, and in that respect, at least> 
am fierement poete, always on my feet. Villainous 
pun ! but I have not time to make a better, and so- 
you must forgive me. I forget whether I told you 
that I am also embarked in a Collective Edition, and 
am just now employed in pruning my juvenilities (cruel 
operation !) for the Press. In looking over these young 
things (which I had almost entirely forgot) I find my- 
self alternately chuckling over what's good in them,, 
and wondering and cursing at what is bad. 

I do not think of being in town before the middle 
of May, but hope to find you then well and flourishing. 

Yours ever, 

T. MOORE. 



NOTES 



FOR 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON 

(Printed from the original MS.) 



[The following paragraphs are derived from a quarto manuscript 
book of Moore's, partly in pencil, partly in ink, containing in his 
minutest hand, and with innumerable corrections and interline- 
ations that render it almost indecipherable, a mass of extracts, 
memoranda, and rough notes, on the cover of which he has written,. 
Chiefly Keferences for my Byron. T. MOORE.'] 



NOTES FOR LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



B.'s DISLIKE to company and love of solitude, common 
to persons with very lively imaginations, and who 
have not the power of giving their fancy vent in 
conversation. 

The stagnation of Byron's talent during his married 
life. Had he sunk into a good husband, would have 
lost his subsequent and finest things. For such wonders 
a great price must be paid, and one cannot have the 
tame and the grand together. 

B. disposed to fall gently into the ways of those he 
lived with to respect what they respected. Would 
have followed to a certain degree the standard set up 
for character in England, but ill-used and chased as he 
was from its society, he became irritated, and, placed 
out of the reach of these social influences, degenerated. 

The praise he gives me in his letters is so evidently 
the result rather of his good nature and affection than 
his judgment, that I have the less scruple in laying it 
before the world. 

Lord B.'s modesty his looking up to all the men 
he lived with mention this in talking of his praises of 
me. 

His slowness in discovering his talent for humorous 
poetry. 



4io NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

The wonderful power his mind showed in being 
able to concentrate itself upon great subjects in the 
midst of such society as he kept in Italy applicable 
chiefly to Kavenna. 

I always anticipated opposition from Lady Byron, 
&c., about the Memoirs, and could easily perhaps have 
braved it, but was not prepared to expect his sister, all 
Ms friends, &c. 

The freedom of spirit against religion all did very 
well in Voltaire's time, before the grand experiment 
was tried; but since the Revolution it has become 
rather mauvais ton, and of late, fortunately perhaps 
for the world, literature has gone rather on the other 
tack. 

Avow my having endeavoured to dissuade him from 
the connexion with Hunt. Had myself refused to join 
him in a journal, because I thought he ought to stand 
alone. Had often asked me to join him in undertakings, 
but I never would. 

Excited himself, evidently, by reading on the sub- 
jects he was employed about. 

Who is M. S. Gr., to whom one of the early poems is 
.addressed ? 

To ask Hobhouse or Kinnaird or Drury if they 
know who are the boys mentioned in ; Childish Recol- 
lections,' Lycus, Euryalus, &c. 

Must write to Rees to get me Anecdotes of Lord 
Byron, published by Knight and Lacy in 1825. 

People are deceived by the sound into rating the 
sense far above its value. Translation exposes this. 
Read Homer in Madame Dacier. 

Byron, the first very great poet who did not range 
himself on the right side of human things. 

Inquire of Drury and others whether there exists 
any copy of that private edition of Lord B.'s early 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 411 

poems, which he had printed before he published them 
in 1 807, and to which he alludes in a note on ' Childish 
Recollections.' 

Inquire of Drury about Hobhouse's poems, published 
while he was abroad. There were some of Lord B.'s 
in the volume. 

His parody on the speech from the ' Medea ' on 
the summit of the Cyaneans, a strong proof of the 
strange mixture of the sublime and ridiculous in his 
mind. 

B.'s great love for Lord C. lay entirely in his recol- 
lection and fancy he did not see enough of him to 
have these cooled by collisions of opinion, by ' trouble- 
some sincerity,' as he himself calls it, and all those little 
rubs and shocks which the best friends, who live much 
together, must experience from each other. 

Must get Sheppard's Devotions, in which there is 
a letter from B. Must see also in Dr. Clarke's Remains 
what he says of him. 

Scrope Davies' sending to ask the loan of B.'s pistols 
to shoot himself. Answer he should be very happy, 
but that the pistols were great favourites of his, and 
he was afraid that they would be taken as a deodand. 

What was the exact period of his love for Miss 
Chaworth ? It could not have been ' during the year 
he passed in Notts away from college,' for though he 
speaks of 6 a violent though pure passion ' at that time, 
he says that the object of it is dead. 

The change of my style not so much in deference to 
my critics as to my subject. In treating of politicians 
or political subjects, one may venture to excite a little 
the imagination of the reader by occasional flights, but 
when a poet like Lord Byron is the subject, so many 
images remembered and derived from his Works occur 
to the mind of the reader, that it would be both 



4 i2 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

presumption and bad policy to intrude one's own med- 
dling images. 

Must see the reviews of the Hours of Idleness at 
the end of 1808 and beginning of 1809, OrUical 9 
Monthly, and particularly the Eclectic, in which there 
was a personal attack on B. (as he mentions in his first 
letter to Dallas), written, as he supposed, by a reverend 
doctor in theology. It is evident that B. was flattered 
by being thus attacked, and still more by the thought 
that it was a clergyman who did it. The comparison, 
too, between himself and the bad Lord Lyttelton evi- 
dently tickled that peculiar vanity of his, which made 
him delight in being thought worse than he was. 

There could not be a worse preparation for marriage 
than Byron's preceding life. Had never known any 
domestic connexions, no regularity of a home, none of 
that deference to women and that respect for their good 
qualities which a youth passed among female relatives 
inspires. The women he had been intimate with all of 
the worst kind ; even what he called love having been 
squandered on worthless and corrupt persons then 
marrying a woman so rigidly the opposite of all he had 
been accustomed to who brought virtue in its least 
agreeable form a pedant in goodness, precise and cold 
in all her tastes and habits. 

Inquire about the edition of his Hours of Idleness 
which contains the verses to the Duke of Dorset, quoted 
by Madame de Belloc. 

Confess myself too much under the influence of 
attachment and admiration to be able to sit in judgment 
upon his character. Besides, I myself (whatever I may 
have heard) never saw or experienced anything from him 
that was not, &c., &c. 

The general impression left upon us by B.'s Works 
is a sense of power power wantoning, as it were, in 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 413 

the excess of its own strength, and too versatile in its 
operations to produce any one simple and durable feel- 
ing in our hearts. Vivacity, gloom, tenderness, sar- 
casm, succeed each other too rapidly for the current of 
ordinary feeling to follow them ; we wonder without 
sympathising ; and the very power of the artist leads us 
to doubt the sincerity of the man. That diversity of 
character, which dramatists represent through fictitious 
personages, Byron assumed himself; and he was either 
the villain, the enthusiast, the lover, or the jester, 
according as the wantonness of his omnipotent genius 
suggested. This the great secret of his whole course, 
his descents as well as his flights, exuberant power 
throwing itself out in all directions. B. the first poet 
that ever mixed these incongruities. Ariosto, whom he 
originally intended to make his model in ChUde Harold 
(and failed), was altogether different. 

The two Journals exhibiting the turn of his thoughts 
and habits at two such very different periods of his life, 
and in such different scenes the one in the first blaze 
of his fame in London, &c., &c. 

Egoism almost invariably a characteristic of men 
of genius. Their mental resources make them inde- 
pendent of others. Besides, their imagination is with 
difficulty satisfied : everything combines to throw them 
back on themselves. Have, in general, been homeless 
animals. 

Whatever deduction may be made from Lord B.'s 
generosity in his praise of me from the consideration of 
how little he had to dread from my rivalry, the same 
cannot be said of his enthusiasm about Scott, whom he 
had every reason to consider a dangerous rival. 

Dependence upon others is the great source of social 
affection. Men of great genius, who are independent of 



414 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

external resources, who love solitude, and generally live 
in a state of abstraction, are in every respect unfit for 
domestic life. 

The true province of poetry is to embellish and 
dignify this life, and shed a light over the future, and 
the poet who employs his art in blackening and degrad- 
ing human nature, and throwing the darkness of eternal 
death over the prospect before us, runs counter to the 
purposes of his high calling. Byron could not help 
shedding these glories as he went, in spite of the general 
perverseness of his intention. The light escaped, in 
spite of him, at every instant. 

Another consideration is that superior natures have 
almost invariably taken the bright side of things. As 
we see in ordinary life that it is generally the least 
enlarged minds that are most ready to find fault and be 
fastidious, so it is in the views taken of the world by 
the poetic observer and the mere grumbler. There 
may be a tinge of sadness in the admiration which the 
former feels, but there is no malignity or depreciating 
spirit. The ton moqueur was never yet the tone of a 
lofty genius, and it was what alone, perhaps, prevented 
Voltaire from being a great man. Even he avoided it 
in his loftiest efforts. The doubter may be conscien- 
tious, but the scoffer never. 

In general the lives of poets have but little to do 
with their works their habits, affections, peculiarities, 
are but faintly reflected in them. We therefore seldom 
feel much interest in them. In B.'s case, however, it is 
altogether different . He has not left a scrap of writing 
upon which he did not stamp an image of himself. 

B.'s scene with Lady Blessington the B.'s near 
their departure lying on the sofa while they were at 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 415 

dinner burst out a-crying. Lady B., fearing that he 
might be ashamed of it, saying, ' One is often in that 
sort of mood, when one cannot help crying from ner- 
vousness/ ' Nervousness ! ' angry that she should think 
it arose from anything but feeling. 

Lord Holland expostulating with Lord B. on the 
line about Lord Carlisle 

The paralytic puling of Carlisle, 

as an attack upon a personal misfortune. 6 What, good 
Grod ! do you mean to say he is actually paralytic, and 
me of all men [looking down at his foot] to attack 
such an infirmity. I'll alter it instantly ' (or, ' I'll 
apologise instantly ' query ? the satire, I believe, had 
been then suppressed). However, that evening some 
attack appeared on Lord B., in the Courier, I believe, 
and next day he said to Lord H. : 'It is now out of the 
question ; I cannot after this retract anything, as the 
fellows would triumph over me.' Must ask Lord H. 
about this. 

The Eebellion at Harrow three claimants for the 
mastership Evans, Mark Drury, and Butler. Wild- 
man at the head of the party for M. Drury. A boy 
telling him ' Byron ' (who was at first inclined to Evans) 
' will not join because he will not act second to any one, 
but you can secure him by giving up the leadership to 
him.' W. did so, and Byron placed himself at the head 
of the party. B. was never pupil to Butler, though he 
lived in the house with him. Butler sending his invita- 
tions according to the usual form at the end of a term 
considered always as a sort of Koyal command. B.'s 
answer that he could not dine with him. Butler after- 
wards questioned him before the boys on the subject 



416 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

whether he had anyone coming to dine with him? 
' No.' ' You must have some reason, Lord B.' ' I 
have.' 'What is it?' 'Why, if you, Dr. Butler, 
should happen to pass through my part of the county 
when I was at Newstead, I certainly should not ask, 
you to dine with me, and therefore feel that I ought 
not to dine with you.' 

Lord Delaware one of his pets at Harrow. W. 
thinks his passion for him, Clare, Dorset, and Wing- 
field was very much their being brother nobles. W., 
being a monitor, one day had put Delaware on his list 
for punishment. B. coming up to him, said, ' W., I find 
you have got Delaware on your list ; pray don't lick 
him.' ' Why not ? ' ' Why, I don't know, except that 
he is a brother peer ; but pray don't,' &c. W. did. 

It was the grating of the window in Butler's hall 
that B. pulled down. 

Mrs. B., arriving from Aberdeen with B. and Mary 
Gray, asking at the toll-bar whether there was not a 
nobleman's estate near whose was it ? 'It was Lord 
Byron's, but he is dead.' ' And who is the heir now ? ' 
' They say it's a little boy that lives at Aberdeen.' 
' This is him,, God bless him ! ' said Mary Gray, turning 
to the child and kissing him. Mrs. B. then stayed at 
Newstead, while Byron was put under the care of 
Lavender at Nottingham. Lavender's method was, 
filling his hands full of oil and rubbing the foot with it 
for a long time, and then twisting it round and screwing 
it up in a wooden machine. Byron in great pain. 
Rogers, who was employed at this time to read Latin 
with him (read Virgil and Cicero), said, ' My lord, I 
don't feel comfortable at having you sitting opposite 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 417 

me there, in such pain as you must be.' ' Never mind, 
Mr. Rogers, you shall not see any signs of it in me/ 
His quizzing Lavender, who was an ignorant quack ; 
writing down letters in all sorts of forms, and asking 
Lavender what language it was ; and Lavender, wishing 
to appear to know, would say it was - . On Lord 
B.'s being in the neighbourhood after his return from 
abroad, he bid some one tell Eogers that, beginning- 
from a certain line which he mentioned in Virgil, he 
could recite twenty lines on, which he remembered having 
read with Rogers while he was suffering the most dread- 
ful pain. When B. came of age, there was a ball given 
and an ox roasted. Hanson danced at the ball. Byron's 
system of starvation began early ; sweating himself 
down; had himself buried in the manure-bed, and 
remained three-quarters of an hour; walking up the 
hill in a great-coat. Was never at any expense ; the 
girls (his harem) all in service about him ; was remarked 
to have been like his grand-uncle in this, who kept a 
woman, but made her work very hard. 

Mrs. B. lived at Southwell while B. was in London 
and at Harrow ; during this time Newstead let to Mr. 
Clay (?) and to Lord Grey de Ruthyn, who had it 
some time. When B. came home from Harrow he used 
to have a bed at Lord Grey's and board with Mrs. 
Nealy in the yard. B. sent down a girl from St. 
James's Street ; the consultation of Mrs. Fletcher about 
her with my informant ' a nice, modest-looking girl.' 
This girl wheedled B. out of a (Nottingham) lace gown 
of his mother's, one of the relics he had preserved ; the 
other relics were a muif and a work-bag. 

The melancholy letters of B. from abroad used to 
make his mother cry. Mrs. B. died in a fit of passion 
about the bills of the upholsterer, Brothers. Was 
sitting on her bed when the fit seized her; her death 

E E 



418 NOTES FOR MOORES 

very speedy. B. did not arrive till she was a corpse. 
His mother's waiting-woman, in passing at night by 
the room where the body was, found that B. was sitting 
with it in the dark; went and expostulated with him. 
He burst into tears, and said, ' Oh, Mrs. - , I had 
but one friend in the world, and I have lost her.' 
Hobhouse and he quarrelled once (before the voyage), 
and Hobhouse went off to town. B. boxing with Rush- 
ton during his mother's funeral. 

Byron's habit of carrying little pocket-pistols while 
a boy. This passion in some degree hereditary, for Sir 
S. Warren related that once when he dined with the old 
Lord, there was a case of pistols placed on the table. 

The neighbourhood all thought it would be a match 
between B. and Miss Chaworth. She, Miss Munday, 
(afterwards Duchess of Newcastle) and B. used to be 
always riding and playing together. 1 

B. used often to show old Murray the place he had 
prepared for him, B. himself, and the dog. Old Murray, 
on Wildman's mentioning the subject (from somebody 
joking with the old man about it), said, in answer to 
Wildman's question, ' whether it was still his wish to 
"be buried there ? ' 'I have been thinking of that, sir, 
and if I was sure my lord would not be put there, I 
must say that I wouldn't like to be with the dog alone.' 

Never would visit any of the neighbouring gentle- 
men ; very close with respect to expenditure. 

The page that came down from Lady Lamb's 
doubt among the servants whether it was a boy or girl. 

Wildman's account of Cameron at Madame D s ; 2 

the first night B. saw her ; his going away with her ; 

1 The second sentence is erased in the MS. 

2 This name is illegible in the MS. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 419 

redeemed her from D l for 100 guineas. Break- 
fasted with B. afterwards out at . The separate 

"beds B. always had with women. fi Tell Miss Cameron 
to come down.' Wildman's surprise. 



There was an execution on Newstead by Brothers, 
the upholsterer, in 1810 for 1,500^. A notice being 
pasted on the house, old Murray, fearing to take it 
down, yet feeling for the dignity of the house, pasted 
some brown paper over it. 

There were four skulls placed upon light pedestals 
in Byron's study found at the same time with the cup 
skull. B. alludes to this in one of his letters to Dallas. 

The private play at Mr. Leacroft's at Southwell; 
acted Penruddock and Tristram Fickle ; the dining-room 
at Leacroft's fitted up as a theatre. See his Prologue, 
which he spoke himself, in his Poems. Colonel Lightfoot, 
of the Forty-fifth, one of the actors. Dr. Pigot another, 
and the two Miss Leacrofts. One of the latter married 
to Captain Oakes, Glocestershire. The epilogue, in 
which there were good-humoured portraits of all the 
actors, written by Beecher and spoken by Byron. 
Heports that it was satirical, and that they were all to 
be taken off; previous rehearsal, in which it was to be 
heard and withdrawn if thought wrong. B.'s suppres- 
sion of his mimicry, in consequence of which the actors 
themselves entreated it might be preserved. His 
Doming out with the imitation on the night. 

The first publication of B. was for private circula- 
tion, Fugitive Pieces. Beecher's poetical expostulation 
on the licentiousness of some of the pieces. B.'s ready 

1 This name is illegible in the MS. 
K E 2 



420 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

concurrence in his view of it. Embarrassed about the 
copies he had sent out ; recalled them, and Beecher saw 
the whole of the impression burned, except the copy he 
has in his possession, and, I believe, another which was 
sent to too great a distance to be recalled. This was in 
1 806. The burning took place immediately on the day 
of his correspondence with Beecher, which, according to 
the date of Byron's poem, was November 26,1806. He 
immediately then set about printing another edition ,. 
in order to substitute copies for those which he had 
withdrawn from his friends. This impression was about 
100, and was printed the beginning of 1807, but never 
published. Almost immediately after followed the 
publication of the Hours of Idleness, which went into 
a second edition, the title Hours of Idleness being 
omitted, and the volume called merely Poems, Original 
and Translated. This second edition was dedicated to 
Lord Carlisle. 

B. saying to Miss Pigot : c I don't know how it is, 
I sing a great deal better to your playing than to other 
people's.' ' That's because I play to your singing, while 
others make you sing to their playing.' 

Being one day out of spirits, Beecher represented to 
him all the advantages he possessed, among other things 
6 a mind that placed him above the rest of mankind.' 
' Ah ! ' he said, ' if this [laying his hand on his head] 
places me above the rest of mankind, this [pointing 
to his foot] places me far, far below them.' 

Captain Leacroft's expostulating with him on his 
attentions to his sister some threats of calling him 
out. Byron ready to meet him. Afterwards, on con- 
sulting Beecher, resolved never to go near the house 
again, and firmly kept his resolution. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 421 

B.'s habit of answering his correspondents imme- 
diately gave to his letters all the aptitude and freshness 
of replies in conversation. 

His peculiarity in not being able to describe any- 
thing that he had not actually seen. What he saw, he 
embellished ; but he must have seen it, could not 
imagine it. Difference between this and those persons 
whose imagination deals best with what they have not 
seen ; whom, from their love of truth, facts chill, be- 
cause they cannot depart from them, and consequently 
cannot elevate them. 

Must see the file of the Morning Chronicle at the 
beginning of 1816 on the subject of B.'s separation 
from Lady B. 

It was natural that such times should produce such 
a poet as Byron. The revolutionary spirit of the day 
was as much embodied in him poetically as it was in 
Napoleon politically and militarily. 

Hobhouse's account of the storm in which B. and 
Shelley were so nearly lost on the Lake. Shelley wishing 
to die shortly and easily, going down and sitting on the 
great trunk and holding by the rings ; the contest 
between them. B. insisting that he would endeavour 
to save Shelley, and Shelley refusing. At length B., 
by threatening to go down with him, prevailed on him 
to let go the rings, and tied S. and himself together by 
a handkerchief, I think. S. as brave as a lion, H. 
says. 

Lord B. a poet through every moment of his exist- 
ence. The avowals (or rather imputations) of his own 
wickedness which people took au pied de la lettre 



422 . NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

were but shadows of poetry passing over his imagina- 
tion, and, as it were, reflected in his conversation. 

As B. showed much of the man in the boy, he also 
continued afterwards to show the boy in the man ; and 
an inspired schoolboy was what he more than anything 
else gave one the idea of. The intellect and passions 
of the man showed themselves prematurely in the boy : 
and the folly and fanfaronade of the boy mixed with 
the understanding of the man. 

B.'s attempt at Ariostoism in the first cantos of 
Childe Harold a failure ; easier to introduce touches of 
pathos or sublimity in a work generally comic than 
to descend from the grave and grand to the light or 
humorous. 

Success at the University requires undivided atten- 
tion to its studies. A lively and versatile mind thirst- 
ing for general information will not apply itself in this 
manner, but will wander in all directions ; and hence 
generally the dullest most succeed there. 

Such a combination of contrary powers always at 
work, could the brain have stood it long? The only 
sign of monomania his passion to be thought bad. 

What produced in Byron's poetic characters the in- 
consistent union of ' one virtue with a thousand crimes ' 
arose from his combining in these fanciful creations the 
generous qualities he really possessed with the bad ones 
he wished to pass for having. 

What all think (bad as well as good) he uttered 
the shadows that pass through other people's minds he 
fixed and embodied. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 423 

Nor was it in the creations of his fancy only that 
this versatility and love of variety showed itself; one 
of the most pervading mishaps of his life may be traced 
to the same fertile source. The pride of personating 
every description of character, evil as well as good, 
influenced, as we have seen, but too much of his con- 
duct ; and as in his poetry, his own experience of the 
ill-effects of passion was made to furnish materials to 
his imagination, so in action his imagination supplied 
most of the dark colouring under which this pride of 
appearing all things, dark as well as bright, so often 
led him to disguise his true aspect from the world. 
To such a perverse length, indeed, did he sometimes 
carry this fancy for self-defamation, that if, as he him- 
self in moments of depression supposed, there was any 
tendency to derangement in his mental faculties, on 
this point alone could it be pronounced to have showed 
itself. In the early part of my acquaintance with him, 
when he most gave way to this humour (it was ob- 
servable afterwards, when the world joined in his own 
opinion of himself, he rather shrunk from the echo), I 
have known him, when a little under the influence of 
wine, as we have sat together after dinner, to fall 
seriously into one of these dark and self-accusing moods, 
and throw out hints of his past life and its deeds, with 
an air of mystery designed evidently to evoke curiosity 
and interest. He was, however, too promptly alive to 
the least approaches of ridicule not to see that gravity 
was becoming somewhat of an effort of politeness on 
the part of his hearer, and from that time he never 
again tried this sort of romantic mystification upon me. 
From what I have known, however, of his experiments 
in this way upon more impressible listeners, I have 
little doubt that to produce effect at the moment there 
is hardly any crime so dark of which in the excitement 



424 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

of this acting upon the imagination of others, he would 
not hint that he had been guilty ; and it has sometimes 
occurred to me that the real secret cause of his lady's 
separation from him, round which herself and her legal 
advisers have thrown such a formidable mystery, may 
after all have been nothing more than some dramatic 
trial of his own fancy and of her credulity, some in- 
vention in the dramatic guise of confession of undefined 
horrors meant merely to mystify, his temptation to 
such tricks being increased by the precise character of 
his hearer ; but which the lady, unluckily for both, so 
little understood him as to take seriously. 

From the time of our first meeting there seldom 
elapsed a day that Lord Byron and I did not see each 
other, and our acquaintance ripened into intimacy and 
friendship with a rapidity of which I have seldom seen 
an example. I was, indeed, lucky in all the circum- 
stances attending my first introduction to him. In a 
generous nature like his the pleasure of repairing an 
injustice would naturally give an additional stimulus 
to any partiality I had the good fortune to inspire him 
with ; while the manner in which I had sought this 
reparation, free as it was from resentment, anger, or 
defiance, left nothing painful to remember in the trans- 
actions between us, no compromise or concession that 
could wound self-love, or take away from the grace of 
that frank friendship to which he at once so cordially 
and unhesitatingly admitted me. I was also not a little 
fortunate in forming my acquaintance with him before 
his success had yet reached its meridian burst, before 
the triumphs that were in store for his genius had 
brought the world all in homage round him. and among 
the splendid crowds that courted his society, even 
claims far less humble than mine could have had but a 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 425 

feeble chance of fixing his regard. As it was, the new 
scene of life that opened upon him with his success, 
instead of detaching us, as it might have done, from 
each other, only multiplied our opportunities of meeting 
and increased our intimacy. In that society where his 
birth entitled him to move, circumstances had already 
placed me, notwithstanding mine ; and when, after the 
appearance of Childe Harold, he came to mingle with 
the world, the same persons who had been my intimates 
and friends became his : our visits were mostly to the 
same places, and in the gay and giddy round of a 
London spring we were (as in one of his own letters he 
expresses it) ' embarked in the same Ship of Fools 
together.' 

But at the time when we first met his position in 
the world was most solitary. Even those coffee-house 
companions who, before his departure from England, 
had served him as a sort of substitute for more worthy 
society, were either relinquished or had disappeared, and, 
with the exception of three or four associates of his col- 
lege days (to whom he appeared very strongly attached), 
Mr. Dallas and his solicitor seemed to be the only 
persons whom even in their very questionable degree he 
could boast of as friends. Though too proud to complain 
of this singularity in his lot, it was evident that he felt 
it, and that this sort of cheerless isolation to which his 
youth had been abandoned, was, on entering into man- 
hood, one of the chief sources of that resentful disdain 
of the world which even his subsequent success in it 
came too late to remove. The effect, indeed, which his 
commerce with society afterwards hadj for the short 
time it lasted, in softening and exhilarating his temper, 
showed how fit a soil his heart would have been for the 
growth of all the kindlier feelings, had but a little of 
this sunshine of the world's smiles shone on him earlier. 

A 



426 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

At the same time, in all such speculations as to 
what might have been, under other circumstances, his 
character, it is always to be borne in mind that his 
very defects were among the elements of his greatness,, 
and that it was out of the struggle of the light of his 
nature with its darkness that his mighty genius drew 
its strength. A more genial and fostering introduction 
into life, while it would doubtless have softened and 
disciplined its mood, might have impaired its vigour,, 
and the same influences that would have diffused 
smoothness and happiness over his life, might have- 
been fatal to its glory. In a short poem of his, which 
appears to have been produced at Athens (as I find it 
written in a leaf of the original MS. of Childe Harold, 
and dated Athens, 1 8 1 1 ), there are two lines which, 
though hardly intelligible as connected with the rest 
of the poem, may, taken separately, be interpreted as 
implying a sort of prophetic consciousness that out of 
the wreck and ruin of his heart the immortality of his- 
name was to arise. 

We frequently, during the first months of our ac- 
quaintance, dined alone together ; and having no Club 
in common to resort to the Alfred being the only one 
to which he at that period belonged, and I being a 
member of none but Watier's, our dinners were either 
at the St. Alban's or at his old haunt . Under- 
standing me to have expressed a wish to belong to the 
same Club with him, he good-naturedly lost no time in 
proposing me as a candidate ; but the resolution I had 
then nearly formed of leading in. future a country life 
being at variance with this, I wrote to beg that he 
would, for the present at least, withdraw the proposal. 

During all this time, and through the succeeding 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 427 

months of January and February, his poem of Childe 
Harold was in progress through the press ; and to the 
changes and additions which he made in the course of 
printing, some of the most beautiful passages of the 
work owe their existence. On comparing, indeed, his 
first rough draught of the two Cantos with the poem as 
we have it at present, we are made sensible of the power 
which true genius possesses, not only of surpassing- 
others, but of improving on itself. . . . There were 
also in the poem, as first written, several stanzas full 
of direct personality, and some degenerating into a 
style even more familiar and ludicrous than that of the 
description of a London Sunday, which still disfigures 
the first Canto. 

In thus mixing up the light with the serious, it was 
the design of the poet to imitate Ariosto. But it is far 
easier to rise with grace and effect from the level of 
a story generally familiar into an occasional burst of 
pathos or splendour than to interrupt a prolonged tone 
of solemnity by any descent into the ludicrous or the 
light. 1 In the former case the transition may soften or 
elevate, but in the latter it almost invariably shocks ; 
for the same reason, perhaps, that a touch of pathos 
or high feeling in comedy has a peculiar charm, while 
the intrusion of comic scenes into tragedy, however 
sanctioned among us by habit and authority, rarely 
fails to offend. The noble poet was himself convinced 
of the failure of the experiment, and in none of the 
succeeding cantos of Childe Harold repeated it. 

It is a scepticism whose sadness ' calls far more for 
pity than blame, and through whose very doubts is 
discernible an inborn warmth of piety, which they 
have been able to obscure, but not to chill, and which 

1 Vide u<pra, p. 422. 



428 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

even under this cloud is worth all the cold, shallow 
belief of the dignities in religion who as little reason as 
they feel. 

At the same time with Childe Harold he had three 
other works in progress through the press. . . . The 
note upon the . . . poem which had been the hasty 
origin of our acquaintance was withdrawn in this 
edition, and a few words of explanation substituted, 
which, before they were committed to the press, he 
had the kindness to submit to my perusal. But as my 
sole object had been the satisfaction of my own feelings, 
without any view whatever to a public atonement, I 
attended but little to the terms of the explanation, and 
have since wholly forgotten them. 

In the month of January, the whole of the two 
cantos of Childe Harold being printed off, some of the 
poet's friends, and among others Mr. R. and myself, were 
so far favoured as to be indulged with a perusal of the 
sheets. In adverting to this period in his memoranda 
Lord B. mentioned, as one of the discouraging omens that 
preceded the publication of this poem, that some of the 
literary friends to whom he had shown it expressed 
doubts of its success, and that o<ie of them had told 
him ' it was too good for the age.' Whoever may have 
pronounced this opinion (and I am, I fear, the person 
that must plead guilty to it), the age has, it must be 
owned, most triumphantly refuted the imputation upon 
its taste which the remark implied. 

ANCESTORS OF LORD B. 

A biographer, to do justice to Lord B. in the manner 
he himself would have wished, should certainly not omit 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 429 

to notice the antiquity of the family from which he 
descended. Among his strongest feelings was that of 
his rank and ancient descent. The first poem in his 
Hours of Idleness, written in 1 803, when he was fifteen 
years of age, contains a proud enumeration of some of 
the heroes of his race. Old Eobert, John of Horiston, 
&c. (Must inquire into all these the old pictures at 
Newstead some still remaining ' Little Sir John with 
the great beard.') Some story thought to be connected 
with the images on the panels at Newstead, as on all of 
them there is the head of a female, with a Moor on one 
side, and generally a Christian on the other, gazing at 
her. As some of Byron's ancestors served in the Holy 
Wars, as he says in the poem just alluded to : 

Proudly to battle 
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 

these groups are supposed to allude to some of the 
adventures that befel them. 

Byron standing before the tomb of Gralileo, with 
Kogers, in the Santa Croce, at Florence (where there 
are also the tombs of Machiavelli, Michael Angelo, &c.), 
said : ' I have a pleasure in looking upon that monu- 
ment he was one of us ' (meaning noble). 

BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 

Born January 22, 1788 Dallas says at Dover, the 
inscription on the urn says in London. Mdme. de Belloc 
(on what authority ?) represents him as born ' dans une 
terre de sa mere, a 30 milles d' Aberdeen.' Dr. Ewing, 
of Aberdeen, in quoting to me the authority of Byron's 
nurse, Mary Gray, says her impression was that he was 
born in London, for she understood that the celebrated 



430 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

Dr. William Hunter, accoucheur in London, attended 
his mother on the occasion. Dr. Ewing tells me the 
Aberdeen people are much inclined to claim him as a 
native. He used sometimes to speak of himself as 
Scotch. 

His name of Gordon was that of his mother (Miss 
Gordon ), and assumed in compliance with a condition 
imposed by will on whoever should marry her. 

He appears to have been sent when four years old 
to a school at Aberdeen kept by Mr. Bower, from whose 
day-book the following extract has been sent to me by 
Mr. Grant, of Aberdeen, successor to the said school- 
master, Mr. Bower : 



George Byron Gordon, iQth November, 1792. 1793, paid 
one guinea. 

Mr. Bower's terms for reading (says my correspondent, 
Mr. Grant) were five shillings per quarter, so that 
young Byron must have been under his care about a 
twelvemonth. On entering her son at this school Mrs. 
Byron said to Mr. Bower, c I have sent him to you that 
he may be kept in about,' from which Mr. Grant infers 
that she already found it difficult to manage him. 
From 1793 to 1795 Mr. Grant cannot trace him, but 
supposes he may have been during that interval at 
Banff Academy, or in the Highlands. In 1795 he 
entered the Grammar School of Aberdeen, where he 
remained till the summer of 1798. Mr. Grant had 
examined the public catalogue of the school, and says 
that his name does not appear after that period. 

Must not forget Byron's consolation for his lameness 
in the Greek proverb quoted in one of his letters. Can 
Lardly, however, quote it, if I recollect the words 
aright. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 431 

Mrs. Shelley tells me she heard a heedless girl once 
say to him, ' I think you have a little of the Scotch 
accent.' ' Good Grod ! I hope not. I am sure I haven't. 

I'd rather the whole d d country were sunk in the 

ocean. I the Scotch accent ! ' 



MRS. MUSTERS. 

B. was a rough boy was two years younger than 
herself she thought nothing of him was in love with 
Musters at the time. Byron's hatred of dancing. 
Scene at Matlock on her dancing with some person who 
was unknown to her ; his saying pettishly, ' I hope you 
like your friend.' A vulgar Scottish cousin some time 
after coming up to him, Mib Chaworth retorted the 
same phrase: 'I hope you like your friend.' Was 
alarmed once by a ghost he saw at Newstead (this 
at a later period) something indistinct he saw in the 
dusk related by Mrs. Leigh, who was with him at the 
time. B.'s quarrel with his mother at Southwell, each 
thinking that the other meditated self-destruction, and 
going round to the apothecaries to warn them against 
supplying poison. 

Asked her whether the hall at Annesley was the 
oratory he mentions ? Said she supposed it might be. 
Thinks it possible she might have said what he 
mentioned in his Memoirs : ' What ! me care for that 
lame boy ! ' 

His mother had his nativity cast when he was very 
young. Mrs. B. wished to pass for a single woman, but 
the fortune-teller told her she was married, and had a 
son who was lame that he would be in danger of being 
poisoned before he came of age, and would be twice 
married, his second wife to be a foreigner. 

Passed six weeks at one time at Annesley while his 



432 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

mother was at Southwell. Used at first to go back ta 
Newstead every night to sleep, saying he was afraid to 
sleep at Annesley because he thought that the pictures 
had taken a grudge to him on account of the duel, and 
would come down from their frames. At last one 
evening he said, ' I saw a bogle last night,' which when 
the girls (Miss C. and her cousin) were puzzled to know 
the meaning of, he repeated, ' I saw a bogle a ghost 
and will not go home to-night.' From this time he 
always slept there. Used to pass his time chiefly in 
riding with Miss C. and her cousin, or in sitting doing 
nothing, pulling his handkerchief, or in firing at a 
door which opens on the terrace, and which still (Mrs. 
M. says) has the marks of his bullets. (By-the-bye, 
Miss JPigot told me that whenever he had nothing else 
to say he would always say I, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10). 
The only thing Mrs. Musters remembers to justify 
the passage about her lover on his hasty steed was 
their going up to the top of the hill together to see 
the races at a distance. He was very fond of sitting 
to hear her play the air of Mary Anne, a great favourite 
of his partly on account of the name. Used to boast 
of a locket he had that somebody had given him. Was 
proud of his beauty : used to say, c I think I'm a good- 
looking fellow.' 

Appearance of B. at Cephalonia excited great 
sensation. The figure of Tartar with his high feather 
and his silver epaulets. B., while he retained his brig, 
riding often by the Marina, or Parade, out to the point 
opposite to the Gruardiana island people all trying to 
get a glimpse of him. Used to put spurs to his horse 
when any group of ladies appeared, and set off with his 
attendants after him. Used sometimes afterwards to 
ride attended by a Suliote in his picturesque costume. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 433 

Mr. H. B. most in his confidence. His visit to Ithaca 
and going to the Fountain of Arethusa with the resident. 
Said, 4 If the Greek Government cannot pay me what I 
have advanced, I will take land or some villages, and 
collect the Suliotes and live as their landlord.' 

Arrived at Argostoli August 6, 1823, in the brig 
4 Hercules,' which he had freighted to convey himself 
and stores. Gramba, H. Brown, Trelawney, and Dr. 
Bruno, an Italian physician, on board the ship in the 
harbour for four weeks. Despatched first H. Brown, 
and shortly afterwards Trelawney, to get accurate in- 
formation of Greece. Paid off the vessel, landed 
stores, and took up his residence at Metaxata, a 
pleasant village four miles and a half from Argostoli. 
Continued till December 27, when he embarked for 
Missolonghi. Received with respect waited on by 
Colonel D. (?) who commanded in the absence of the 
governor went to an evening party at Colonel D's. 
Dined with the officers of the garrison made a short 
speech on his health being drunk, with which he was 
pleased. Asked Colonel D. very often if he had done 
well, if he had acquitted himself properly, so little as 
he was in the habit of public speaking. Dr. Kennedy's 
intended lecture to a few friends on the truth of the 
C. religion one of them mentioned it to B. his 
expressing a wish to be present. c You know,' he said, 
4 1 am reckoned a black sheep ; yet after all,' he con- 
tinued, 4 not so black as the world believes me.' Said 
he would convince Dr. Kennedy that if he had not faith 
he had at least patience, and would listen throughout 
the prescribed time (twelve hours) without interrupting 
him. Lord B. said that he did not like to be called 
an infidel, as it was 4 a cold and chilling appellation.* 

F F 



434 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

The lecture was on a Sunday. The audience did not 
hear Dr. K. through his twelve hours. I saw, says the 
Doctor, that his lordship's patience was evidently at an 
end, and that he wished to be a speaker, and no longer 
a hearer. B. said that when he was young he went 
regularly to church, read theological works, and was 
particularly pleased with Barrow ; said that he was not 
an infidel who denied the Scriptures and wished to 
remain in unbelief ; that, on the contrary, he was very 
desirous to believe, as he experienced no happiness in 
having his religious opinions so unsteady and unfixed. 
But he could not understand the Scriptures. Respected 
those who conscientiously believed, but saw so many 
who were Christians because they were paid for being 
so, and from some other such motive which he found 
out in them, that his reliance on the sincerity of their 
believing was much shaken. To the similitude used 
by Dr. K. of the potter and his clay, B. remarked that 
he would certainly say to the potter, if he were broken 
in pieces, ' Why do you treat me thus ? ' He also 
observed that if the whole world were going to hell, he 
would prefer going with them to going alone to heaven. 
Byron astonishing the standers-by with his theological 
knowledge (mentioning Barrow, Stillingfleet, &c.), 
which Dr. K. questions, and contradicts the assertion 
that went about that he himself was astonished at B.'s 
knowledge. ' Lord Calthorpe was the first who called 
me an atheist when we were at school at Harrow, for 
which I gave him as good a drubbing as ever he got in 
his life.' B.'s liveliness and affability. Speaking on 
the utility of prayer, B. said to Dr. K. : ' Prayer does 
not consist in the act of kneeling, nor in repeating 
certain words in a solemn manner. Devotion is the 
affection of the heart, and this I feel ; for when I view 
the wonders of creation I bow to the majesty of Heaven, 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 435 

and when I feel the enjoyments of life, health, and 
happiness, I feel grateful to (rod for having bestowed 
them upon me.' Had his sister's pocket-bible with 
Mm, and read it continually. The thing that seemed 
most to strike Byron (merely because it was poetical) 
was Dr. K.'s idea that Satan's appearance before (rod 
in Job must be taken literally. ' Lord B. again ex- 
pressed how much the belief of the real appearance of 
Satan to hear and obey the commands of (rod added to 
his views of the grandeur and majesty of the Creator.' 
B. did not attend any more of the meetings before 
mentioned, and Dr. K. seemed to be glad of it, as the 
remarks of B. (talking as he would be excited to do for 
impression and effect) could be of little service to his 
military hearers. The other conversations were with 
B. alone. B.'s comparison of the witch-scene in Saul 
with Groethe's devil (Mephistopheles), his opinion that 
the former was, taking actors, circumstance, &c., into 
account, the finest and most finished witch-scene ever 
written or conceived. Groethe's, one of the finest and 
most sublime specimens of human conceptions. The 
anecdote of the man in the papers (which Dr. K. 
mentioned to him), who one evening brought Gain in 
his hand to a friend, and read some passages of it to 
him, in which doubts of immortality and of justice 
upon earth are expressed," and directed his attention 
to what you had said. Next morning he shot himself. 
Lord B. looked serious. This seemed to make a great 
impression on B., and he frequently after recurred to 
it. ' I do not reject the doctrines of Christianity, I 
only want sufficient proofs.' A frequent question of 
his, ' What, then, you think me in a very bad way ? ' 
4 But,' answered he, ' I am now in a fairer way. I 
already believe in predestination, which I know you 

F F 2 



436 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

believe in, and in the depravity of the human heart in 

general, and of my own in particular. Thus you see 

there are two points in which we agree. I shall get at 

the others by and by, but you cannot expect me to 

become a perfect Christian at once.' Lady B., he said, 

was a great person among the Socinians. Had had 

many disputes with her upon religion, but on comparing 

all points together, found that her religion was very 

much the same with his own. Praised Shelley highly. 

Lord B. on these occasions never let an opportunity for 

a joke or pun escape, but still nothing in his manner 

of levity, or a wish to mock at religion. Showed great 

misgivings and unwillingness about going to Greece. 

' After all,' said he, ' it is my own indolence that makes 

me dislike to move, for though I have been a sort of 

wanderer on the earth, I have always quitted each 

place of residence with some regret, from a dislike of 

trouble and care, I suppose.' Byron had Southwood 

Smith's book with him, and was much pleased with its 

opportune [reference] to the ' shocking doctrine,' &c. 

&c. 'I cannot decide the point,' said his lordship, 

' but to my present apprehension it would be a most 

desirable thing could it be proved that ultimately all 

created beings were to be happy. This would appear 

to be most consistent with a Grod whose power is 

omnipotent, and whose principal attribute is love. I 

cannot yield to your doctrine of the eternal duration of 

punishment ; this author's opinion is more humane^ 

and I think he supports it very strongly from Scripture.' 

The Doctor, of course, all for eternal damnation. Dr.. 

Kennedy sent him the account of Rochester's death. 

Had great contempt for the Greeks, and looked only to 

their cause nil boni prater causam. 6 1 am nearly 

reconciled to St. Paul, for he says there is no difference 

between the Jews and the Greeks, and I am exactly of 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 437 

the same opinion, for the characters of both are equally 
vile.' Dr. K.'s grave proofs that he had mistaken the 
meaning of the passage very amusing. The liberal 
way in which he spoke of Hunt as a man of talents 
and sincerity, and that he would not desert him. ' Do 
you continue to read your Bible ? ' 'I do,' he said, 
' every day.' ' Do you add prayer to it ? ' 4 No,' he 
said, * I am not so far advanced, and, as I said before, 
you must give me time.' 

Hearing of his daughter Ada being ill her complaint 
.a determination of blood to the head a complaint, he 
said, to which he himself was subject. His right eye 
inflamed while at Cephalonia imputed it to having 
j-ead a good deal of late. ' If I said anything dis- 
respectful of Lady B. I am very much to blame. Lady 
B. deserves every respect from me, and certainly 
nothing could give me greater pleasure than a recon- 
ciliation. (K. had expressed his hope to see this some 
day or other). His bringing actresses to the house all 
false. Had sent Hobhouse to her to know the cause of 
her leaving him, who almost went down on his knees 
to her. ' I am, and always have been, ready for a 
reconciliation.' 

No more tragedies, having so completely failed in 
them, as they say. 

Left his house at Metaxata on the eve of his 
departure, and took up his residence at an English 
.gentleman's. On the day he was to embark found him 
reading Quentin Durward. He was, as usual, in good 
.spirits. Left a donation for the school for Greek 
females at Cephalonia. Dr. K.'s anger at the motto of 
the Greek Telegraph. 

From the time of his arrival till his death was the 
happiest and brightest (Dr. K. says) of his life. He 
was not writing any poem, nor engaged in any vice. 



438 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 

He was kindly received, and had a prospect of glory 
before him. He had expected not to be so well received. 
It was while living on board the brig he made his trip 
to Ithaca. Had some idea of going to Constantinople 
to release some Greek captives. As to the danger, the 
worst they could do was to put him in the Seven 
Towers. 

'You must have been highly gratified,' said a 
Scottish gentleman who accompanied him from Ithaca, 
4 by the classical remembrances,' &c. &c. ' You quite 
mistake me,' said Lord B., ' I have no poetical humbug 
about me. I am too old for that. Ideas of that sort 
are confined to rhyme.' 

' Take care,' said a gentleman who was riding with 
him, when they came to a difficult pass of the road, 
' take care, lest you fall and break your neck.' * I 
should not like that,' said his Lordship, ' but should 
this leg of mine be broken, of which I have not much 
use, I should not mind, and perhaps I might get a 
better.' 

The woman who washed for him (at Cephalonia), a 
soldier's widow, had a smart, genteel-looking girl, her 
daughter, about fifteen, whom she occasionally sent to 
his lordship's house with the linen. Lord B. noticed 
this, and wrote to Wm. H. of the regiment, and 
requested he would tell her mother not to send her 
daughter any more. 'You know,' he said, 'what a 
parcel of rascals my household is composed of, and I 
should not like the poor girl to get any injury. And 
don't fail,' he added, ' to let Dr. K. know this good 
action of mine.' 

Said that he came out to the islands prejudiced 
against Sir T. Maitland's government of the Greeks. 
' But I have now changed my opinion. They are 
such barbarians that, if I had the government of them, 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 439, 

I would pave these very roads with them.' With the 
officers who went out to him he used to jest, laugh, 
smoke, and drink brandy-and-water and porter with 
the best of them. 

Had generally, he said, a sullen and ill-natured fit 
every evening at eight o'clock ; used then to scold the 
servants, &c., till the fit was passed. 

Wrote letters from Nelasah to the Greek Grovern- 
ment, warning them of the consequence of dissension, 
&c. &c. Tribute to his strong and sound political views 
by Count Delladicemo nothing fanciful, &c. &c., but 
all correct and enlightened. His comfortless residence 
at Missolonghi the household always in confusion 
servants in different uniforms, just whatever they liked, 
some very grotesque. 

He said that when he and Hobhouse were together 
in Albania, Hobhouse laid hold of a great quantity of 
manuscript paper, which had fallen out of his portman- 
teau, and asked what it was. On being told that it was 
an account of B.'s early life and opinions, he persuaded 
him to burn it, ' For,' said he, ' if any sudden accident 
occur they will print it, and thus injure your memory.' 
' The loss,' he said, ' is irreparable.' 



In hearing the different causes alleged for his sepa- 
ration, he seemed amused at the falsehood and absurdity 
of them. When he had heard all he said, ' The causes 
were too simple to be soon found out.' 

He used to say Trelawney was an excellent fellow 
till his Lara and Corsair spoiled him by his attempt- 
ing to imitate them. 



440 NOTES FOR LIFE OF BYRON. 

Byron (Fletcher says in a letter to Dr. K.) used 
while at Nivier, near Venice, to dismount from his 
liorse when a procession was passing and fall on his 
knees till it passed, and once gave a severe reproof to 
his groom for not doing the same. 

Fondness for alliteration. In fifth edition altering 

For well had Conrad learn'd to awe the crowd, 
changed to ' curb the crowd.' 



441 



INDEX. 



ABE 

ABERDEEN, Lord, 15 

Addison at Venice, 152, note ; his 

Freeholder, 229, note 
Adele de Senange, 79 
^Eschylus, his Agamemnon quoted, 

221 

Alfieri, 155 

Almanack des Gourmands, quoted, 

292, note 
Amours of Daphnis and Chloe, 56, 

Anacreon, paraphrase of the fifth 

Ode of, 5 ; allusion to, 48 ; 

Lord Thurlow's translations 

from, 49 

An ne Boleyn , 1 1 7- 1 44 
Anthologia Hibernica, 2-6 
Apuleius, quoted, 135 
Arabian Nights, quoted, 264 
Ariosto, his story of Isabella and 

the Moor, 68 ; quoted, 238, note 
Aristophanes, his Clouds, 39 
Aristotle, on the language of 

Tragedy, 133, 358; his Eules, 

402 

Athanasian Creed, the, 31, 181 
Augustine, St., strange doctrine 

of, 6 1 ; his City of God, 65 ; 

his letters to women, 67 

BA.CON, Lord, quoted, 167, 298 
Bale, Bishop, 171 
Balzac on Tertullian, 64 
Barbeyrac, his treatise 'De la 

morale des Peres,' 62 
Basil, St., his Letter to a fallen 

Virgin, 74 
Bayle, his Thoughts on the Comet, 

145 ; his definition of the term 

Protestant, 246 



CAS 
Beaumarchais, his Figaro, quoted,. 

19 

Beggar's Opera, The, 173 

Bel and the Dragon, 22 

Berkeley, Bishop, his essay on Tar 
Water, 145 

Bertholdt, 200 

Beza, retort of, 22 

Bliicher, 12-14 

Boccaccio, 148 

Boileau, quoted, 49, 51, 103, 347 

Bologna stone, the, 277, 345 

Bossuet, quoted, 99, note 

Boyd, Hugh Stuart, his Trans- 
lation of Select Passages from; 
the Fathers, 55-75 

Bread-Fruit Tree, The, 17 

Broglie, Due de, discourse of, 95 

Buchanan's Elegy upon his Gout, 
49, note 

Bunbury, Lady Sarah, her per- 
formance of Jane Shore, 170 

Burke, verses by, 174 

Burney, Dr., on the origin of the 
Italian opera, 149, note 

Busby, Dr., on Lord Thurlow's 
Hermttda, 37 

Bute, Lord, as Lothario, 170 

Butler, Mr., on Transubstantia- 
tion, 124 

Byron, Lord, failure of a poem 
by, 132 ; his visits to Leigh 
Hunt in Horsemonger Lane 
Gaol, 398 ; an amour of, 400 ; 
his correspondence with Moore,. 
402, 403 ; Notes for Life of,. 
409-440 

CANUTE, 21 
Castlereagh, Lord, 246 



442 



INDEX. 



CHA 



Chateaubriand, 76, 77 

Ohiabrera, 154 

Chillingworth, on the Fathers, 56 

Chrysostom, St., his Third Ora- 
tion on the Incomprehensible, 
69 ; on the efficacy of prayer, 
70 

icero, quoted, 83, 162 ; verses 
by, 173 ; quoted, 247, 248 

Cinthio, 154 

Clemens Alexandrinus, 62, 65 

Oobbett, William, 401 

Colle, licentious piece by, 163 

Collier, Jeremy, 59 

Columella, quoted, 399 

Constant, Benjamin, 112 

Cornaro, Luigi, 154 

Corneille, 158 

Cottin, Madame, 78, 82 

Oowley, on Ovid's banishment, 
45 ; his translations from Ana- 
creon, 49 ; obscurity and quib- 
bling pedantry of, 279 

Cranmer, 141 

Crowne, his Masque of Calisto, 
168 

Curran, 401 

DANTE, quoted, 44, note; desig- 
nation of his Divina Commedia, 
148 ; quoted, 347 

Darwin, quoted, 249 

Davenant, Sir William, 169 

Deuteronomy, quoted, 31 

Donne, 279 

Dorat, Les Baisers, 295 

Dryden, his Annus Mirabilis, 
quoted, 78 

Duchesuois, Mademoiselle (the 
actress), 78 

EDINBURGH REVIEW, Contribu- 
te, 33-220 
Edward III., 233 
Eldon, Lord, 12, 27, 44, 45, 49 
Elizabeth, Queen, 78, 230 
Euripides, his Iphigenia, quoted, 

144 
Exeter, Bishop of, 15, 29 

FATHERS, the, 55-75 
Fenelon on S ;, Basil's Letter to a 
fallan Virgin, 74, 94 



JOH 

Fitzgerald, Lord Edward, 175 
Flahaut, Comtesse de. See Souza, 

Madame de 
Flood, Henry, 173 
Fox, Charles James, as an amateur 

actor, 170 

Frederick the Great, 188, 245 
French Novels, 75-92 
French Official Life, 92-117 

GAMMER GURTON'S Needle, 166 
Gardiner, Bishop, 138 
Genlis, Madame de, 78, 91 
Gesenius, Dr., on Isaiah, 200 
Gibbon, his Decline and Fall, 145 ; 

quoted, 151 

Gifford on Masques, 167 
Goethe, his Clavigo, 166, note 
Goldoni on the Marchese Alber- 

gati, 155 

Grattan, verses by, 173-175 
Gregory Nazianzen, St., 66; ex- 
tracts from, 71 
Grey, Lord, 16 

Grover, H. M., his tragedy of 
AnneBoleyn, 117, 125-133 

HEPTAMERON, the, of Margaret of 
Navarre, 119, 124 

Heliodorus, his romance of Thea- 
gines and Chariclea, 63 

Henry VIII., 118, 121 ; his love- 
betters to Anne Boleyn, 124 

Higgins, Mr. Godfrey, 210 

Holland, Lord, 41 

Homer, 208 

Horace, Lord Thurlow's transla- 
tions from, 50 ; his familiar, 60 

Hume, on Berkeley, 146, note; 
curious passage in the first edi- 
tion of his History, 231, note 

Hunt, Leigh, Moore's letters to, 
391-403 ; his Story of Rimini, 
399 

IRVING, EDWARD, 25, 30 

JEFFREY, on Moore's review of 
Lord Thurlow's poems, 35 ; 
Moore's duel with, 404 

Jerome, St., 67, note 

Johnson, Dr., on Addisou's Cato. 
136 



INDEX. 



443 



JON 



PUS 



Jonson, Ben, masques of, 168 
Jortin, his leaning towards Arian- 
ism, 1 80 
Justin the Martyr, St., 57 

KEMBLE, JOHN PHILIP, 126 
Kilkenny theatricals, 171 
Koran, the, 241, note, 352 

LACTANTIUS, 73 

La Fayette, Madame, 82, 91 

Lalla Rookh, ' divertissement ' 
from, 169 ; quoted, 352, note 

Lamartine, verses by, translated 
by Moore, 75, note, 76 

Lamennais, 100 

La Mothe le Vayer, his Hexame- 
ron Rustique, 62, note 

Lamp of St. Agatha, the, 6 

Lapland sunset, 345 

Lee, Professor, his Dissertation on 
the German rationalists, re- 
viewed, 199 sqq. 

Leibnitz, 188, note 

Le Kain, the tragedian, 162 

Lessing, fable of, 192 

Lingard, Dr., 124, 125, note 

Linnseus, his classification of bats, 
50 

Livy, quoted, 146, 148 

Lofty Lords, the, 20 

Lorenzo de Medici, 149, 154 

Louis XIV., 101 

Louis, St., ransom of, 344 

Lucan, quoted, 25, note, 36, note 

Lucretius, quoted, 39 

Luther, quoted, 29, 182, note 

MACHIAVELLI, as a comedian, 151, 

Mahomet, his holy pigeon, 352 

Marguerite of Navarre, 158 

Marie Antoinette, 164 

Marot, Clement, 157 

Martial, 60 

Mary Queen of Scots, 78 

Masques, 167 

Menage, 42 

Middletou's Inquiry into Miracles, 

56, 59, note 
Miguel, Don, 14 
Milman, Dean, his Anne Boleyn, 

117, 132-144; his History of 



the Jews, 181 ; his surprise on 

hearing that Moore was the 

author of the article on German 

Rationalism 203, note 
Milner, Dr., 226 sqq. 
Milton, epithet used by, 74; his 

artillery in Paradise Lost, 78 ; 

his Arcades and Comus, 167, 

174; his Christian Doctrine, 196 
Moira, Lord, 395, 397 
Moliere, his Bourgeois Gentil- 

homme, 126 

Montaigne, quoted, 146, 159 
Montesquieu, quoted, 98, 116, 245 
Morgan, Lady, her Life of Salva- 

tor Eosa, 155, note 
Morpeth, Lord, 15 
Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History, 

quoted, 63 

NAPOLEON, downfall of, 43 ; traits 
of, 108-111 

O'BRIEN'S Round Towers of Ire- 
land, reviewed, 204-220 

Origen, 66, 67, note 

Ovid, quoted, 12 ; banishment of, 
45 

PANURGE, 93, 225 

Philpotts, Henry, Bishop of Exe- 
ter, 29-31 

Pitt, William, 170 

Plato, 357 

Plautus, 152 

Plotinus, 74 

Politian, his Tragedy of Orfeo, 
149 ; verses of, 150 

Pompadour, Madame de, her per- 
formance of the part of Collette 
in Les Trois Cousines, 161 

Pope, his Rape of the Lock, 59 ; 
saying of, 174 

Power, Eichard, 176 

Poynder, Mr., 22 

Prophet of the Silver Veil, the, 
362 

Prince Eegent, the, 12-14, 38, 53, 
256, note 

Princesse de Cleves, La, 91 

Private Theatricals, 145-176 

Pusey, E. B., his work on German 
Rationalism reviewed, 183 sqq. 



444 



INDEX. 



RAB 



RABELAIS, quoted, 93, 225 

Racine, his Esther and Athal'ie, 
160 

Radcliffe romances, absurdity of, 8 

Beflector, The, 392-394 

Hose, Rev. Hugh James, his work 
on German Protestantism re- 
viewed, 177 sqq. 

Round Towers of Ireland, 204- 

220 

Rousseau, his failure as an actor, 

163 

Russell, Lord John, his History of 
Europe from the Peace of Utrecht, 
quoted, 116, note 

SAINT PATRICK, Ode to, 1 1 

Saint Swithin, 1 1 

Salmasius, 64 

Salvator Rosa as a comic actor, 

154 

Schiller, his unsuccessful perform- 
ance of Clavigo, 165, 166; re- 
ligious essay by, 198 

Scott, Sir Walter, his Life of 
Dry den quoted, 212 

Scuderi, ludicrous speech in his 
tragedy of Dido and ^neas, 
160 

Shakespeare, quoted, 36, 51; in- 
debted to Cinthio for some of 
his stories, 154; quoted, 177 

Shelley's Poems, 405 

Shelley, Mrs., letter of Moore to, 

405 

Shenstone, quoted, 21, note 
Silvester, Pope, 238, note 
Smart, Sir George, 40 
Sophocles, his Electra, 150, his 

(Edipus, 153 
South, quoted, 65 
Southey, his Vindiciee Ecclesice 

Anglicance, 125; his Doctor, 220, 



WYA 

Souza, Madame de, novels of, 75- 

92 
Stael, Madame de, 78 ; her Mle- 

magne, 198 
Stephen, Henry, 40 

TERTITLLIAN, 62, 64 ; his treatise 
De Virginibus Velandis, quoted, 
197 

Thurlow, Lord, Poems of, re- 
viewed, 35-54 

Toland, 187 

Turner, Sharon, on Margaret, 
Queen of Navarre, 119; his 
defence of Henry VIII., 121, 
124 

ULYSSES, supposed identity of with 

St. Patrick, 207, 208 
Usher, Archbishop, 234, 238, note 

VALLANCEY, 205-207 

Varillas, quoted, 149, note 

Veiled Prophet, the, 362 

Venantius Fortunatus, 73 

Ver-vert, 51 

Vincentius Fabricius, curious poem 
by, 249, note 

Virgil, his lines on Rumour quoted, 
113; his avoidance of certain 
words, 134, note 

Voltaire, on Henry VIII,, 122; 
on the old Scriptural dramas, 
156 ; his performance of the 
part of Cicero, 162, his Siecle 
de Louis XIV., quoted, 240, 
note; his Henriade, quoted, 243, 
note ; romances of, 304, 342 

WARBTTRTON, quoted, 199 
Wetherall, 23-25, 26 
Whyte, Samuel (Moore's school- 
master), Lines to, 5 
Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 118 



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THE MAYFAIR LIBRARY. 

A Journey Round My Room. By XAVIER 
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he Agony Column of "The Times." 
Melancholy Anatomised: Abridgment of 

" Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy." 
The Speeches of Charles Dickens. 
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Jeuxd'Esprit. Edited by HENRY S. LEIGH. 
Witch Stories. By E. LYNN LINTON. 
Ourselves. By E. LYNN LINTON. 
Pastimes & Players. By R. MACGREGOR. 
New Paul and Virginia. W.H.MALLOCK. 
New Republic. By W. H. MALLOCK. 
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Thoreau : His Life & Aims. By H. A. PAGE. 
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More Puniana. By Hon. HUGH ROWLEY. 
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Wanderings in Patagonia. By JULIUS 

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G. DANIKL. Illustrated by CRUIKSHANK. 
Circus Life. By THOMAS FROST. 
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Tunis. Chev. HESSE- WARTEGG. aalllusts. 
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Tavern Anecdotes and Sayings. 
The Genial Showman. ByE.P. KINGSTON 
Story of London Parks. JACOB LARWOOD. 
London Characters. By HENRY MAYHEW. 
Seven Generations of Executioners. 
Summer Cruising in the South Seas. 

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Harry Fludyer at Cambridge. 
Jeff Briggs's Love Story. BRET HARTE. 
Twins of Table Mountain. BRET HARTE. 
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Esther's Glove. ByR. E. FRANCILLON. 
Sentenced! By SOMERVILLE GIBNEY. 
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Mrs. Gainsborough's Diamonds. By 

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Dolly. By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY, M.P. 



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Was She Good or Bad? By W. MINTO. 
Notes from the "News." ByjAs. PAYN. 
Beyond the Gates. By E. S. PHELPS. 
Old Maid's Paradise. By E. S. PHELPS. 
Burglars in Paradise. By E. S. PHELPS. 
Jack the Fisherman. By E. S. PHELPS. 
Trooping with Crows. By C. L. PIRKIS. 
Bible Characters. By CHARLES READE. 
Rogues. By R. H. SHERARD. 
The Dagonet Reciter. By G. R. SIMS. 
How the Poor Live. By G. R. SIMS. 
Case of George Candlemas. G. R. SIMS. 
Sandycroft Mystery. T. W. SPEIGHT. 
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Father Damien. By R. L. STEVENSON. 
A Double Bond. By LINDA VILLARI. 
My Life with Stanley's Rear Guard. By 
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MY LIBRARY. 

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Pour Frenchwomen. By AUSTIN DOBSON. 
Citation and Examination of William 

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The Journal of Maurice de Guerin. 



Christie Johnstone. By CHARLES READE, 

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The Dramatic Essays of Charles Lamb. 



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The Rivals, School for Scandal, and other 

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Robinson Crusoe. Edited by JOHN MAJOR. 

With 37 Illusts. bv GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. 
Whims and Oddities. By THOMAS HOOD. 

With 85 Illustrations. 
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The Green Bird. 

By GRANT ALLEN. 

Philistia. The Tents of Shem. 

Babylon For Maimie's Sake. 

Strange Stories. The Devil's Die. 
Beckoning Hand. This Mortal Coil. 
In all Shades. The Great Taboo. 

Dumaresq's Daughter. | Blood Royal. 
The Duchess of Powysland. 

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Phra the Phoenician. 

By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
A Fellow of Trinity. 

By Rer. S. BAKING GOULD. 
Red' Spider. I Eve. 

By W. BESANT fc J. RICE. 
My Little Girl. By Celia's Arbour. 
Case of Mr.Lucraft. Monks of Thelema. 
This Son of Yulcan. 
Golden Butterfly. 
Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
With Harp and Crown. 
'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
The Chaplain of the Fleet. 

By WALTER BEN A NT. 
All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
The Captains' Room. | Herr Paulus. 
All in a Garden Fair 
The World Went Very Well Then. 
. For Faith and Freedom. 
Dorothy Forster. j The Holy Rose. 
Uncle Jack. | Arm or el of Lyon- 

Childrenof Gibeon. j esse. 
Sell of St. Paul's. I St. Katherine's by 
To Call Her Mine. | the Tower. 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
The Shadow of the Sword. | Matt. 
A Child of Nature. | Heir of Linne. 
The Martyrdom of Madeline. 
God and the Man. I The New Abelard. 
Love Me for Ever. Foxglove Manor. 
Annan Water. I Master of the Mine. 

By HALL CA1NE. 
The Shadow of a Crime. 
A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster. 
WORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
Transmigration. 
From Midnight to Midnight. 
Blacksmith and Scholar. 
Village Comedy. 1 You Play Me False. 



By WILKIE COLLINS. 



Armadale. 
After Dark. 
No Name. 
Antonina. | Basil 
Hide and Seek. 
The Dead Secret. 
Queen of Hearts. 
My Miscellanies. 
Woman in White. 
The Moonstone. 
Man and Wife. 
Poor Miss Finch. 
Miss or Mrs? 
New Magdalen. 

By DUTTON COOK. 
Paul Foster's Daughter. 

By MATT CRIM. 
Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 



The Frozen Deap. 
The Two Destinies. 
Law and the Lady 
Haunted Hotel. 
The Fallen Leaves. 
Jezebel's Daughter. 
The Black Robe. 
Heart and Science. 
"I Say No." 
Little Novels. 
The Evil Genius. 
The Legacy of Cain 
A Rogue's Life. 
Blind Love. 



By WILLIAM 

Hearts of Gold. 



CITPLES. 



By AL.PHONSE DAUDET. 

The Evangelist ; or, Port Salvation. 

Bv ERASMUS DAWSON. 

The Fountain of Youth. 

By JAMES DE MILLE. 

A Castle in Spain. 

By J. LEITII DERWENT. 

Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 

By DICK DONOVAN. 

Tracked to Doom. 

By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES. 

Archie Lovell. 

By G. MANVILLE FENN. 

The New Mistress. 

By PERCY FITZGERALD. 

Fatal Zero. 

By R. E. FRANCILLON. 

Queen Cophetua. I A Real Queen. 
One by One. | King or Knave? 

Pref. by Sir BARTLE FRE RE. 
Pandurang Hari. 

By EDWARD GARRETT. 
The Capel Girls. 



28 



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THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 

By CHARLES GIBBON. 
Robin Gray. I The Golden Shaft. 

Loving a Dream. | Of High Degree. 
The Flower of the Forest. 

JBy E. GLANVILLE. 
The Lost Heiress. 
The Fossicker. 

By CECIL GRIFFITH. 
Corinthia Marazion. 

By TMOItBLAS HARDY. 
Under the Greenwood Tree. 

By BRET HARTE. 
A Waif of the Plains. 
A Ward of the Golden Gate. 
A Sappho of Green Springs. 
Colonel Starbottle's Client. 

By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
Garth. Dust. 

Ellice Quentin. Fortune's Fool. 
Sebastian Strome. Beatrix Randolph. 
David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
The Spectre of the Camera. 

By Sir A. HELPS. 
Ivan de Biron. 

By ISAAC HENDERSON. 
Agatha Page. 

By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
The Leaden Casket. | Self-Condemned. 
That other Person. 

By JEAN INGELOW. 
Fated to be Free. 

By R. ASI1E ICING. 
A Drawn Game. 
"The Wearing of the Green." 

By E. LYNN LINTON. 



lone. 

Paston Carew. 

Sowing the Wind. 



Patricia Kemball. 

Under which Lord? 

"My Love I" 

The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 

The World Well Lost. 

By HENRY W. LUCY. 
Gideon Fleyce. 

By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 



A Fair Saxon. 
Linley Rochford. 
Miss Misanthrope. 



Donna Quixote. 
Maid of Athens. 
Camiola. 



The Waterdale Neighbours. 
My Enemy's Daughter. 
Dear Lady Disdain. 
The Comet of a Season. 

By AGNES MACDONELL. 
Quaker Cousins. 

66 y 1>. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
Life's Atonement. Val Strange. 
Joseph's Coat. Hearts. 

Coals of Fire. A Model Father. 

Old Blazer's Hero. 
By the Gate of the Sea. 
A Bit of Human Nature. 
First Person Singular. 
Cynic Fortune. 
Tha Way of the World. 

By MURRAY & HERMAN. 
The Bishops' Bible. 
Paul Jones's Alias. 

By HUME NISBET. 
"Bail lipl" 

By GEORGES OIINET. 
A Weird Gift. 

By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
Whiteladies, 



THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
By OUFDA. 



Held in Bondage. 

Strathmore. 

Chandos. 

Under Two Flags. 

Idalia. 

CeciKJastlemaine's 

Gage. 

Tricotrin. | Puck. 
Folle Farine. 
A Dog of Flanders. 
Pascarel. I Signa. 

fll 



laprax- 



Two Little Wooden 

Shoes. 

In a Winter City. 
Aria:lne. 
Friendship. 
Moths. I Rufflno. 
Pipistrello. 
A Village Commune 
Bimbi. | Wanda. 
Frescoes. | Othmar. 
In Maremma. 
Syrlin.l Guilderoy. 
Santa Barbara. 



Princess 
ine. 
By MARGARET A. PAUL. 

Gentle and Simple. 

By JAMES PAYN. 

Lost Sir Massingberd. 

Less Black than We're Painted. 

A Confidential Agent. 

A Grape from a Thorn. 

In Peril and Privation. 

The Mystery of Mirbridge. 

The Canon's Ward. 

Walter's Word. 



By Proxy. 

Hig 



Talk of $he Town 
Holiday Tasks. 
The Burnt Million. 
The Word and the 

Will. 

Sunny Stories. 
PRICE. 
I The Foreigners. 



gh Spirits. 
Under One Roof. 
From Exile. 
Glow-worm Tales. 

By E. C. 
Valentina. 
Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 

By RBCIIARD PRYCE. 
Miss Maxwell's Affections. 

By CHARLES READE. 
It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
The Double Marriage. 
Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
The Cloister and the Hearth. 
The Course of True Love. 
The Autobiography of a Thief. 
Put Yourself in his Place. 
A Terrible Temptation. 
Singleheart and Doubleface. 
Good Stories of Men and other Animals* 
Hard Cash. Wandering Heir- 

Peg Wofflngton. A Woman-Hater 
ChristieJohnstone. A Simpleton. 
Griffith Gaunt. Readiana. 
Foul Play. The Jilt. 

A Perilous Secret. 

By Mr*. J. II. RIDDELL. 
The Prince of Wales's Garden Party* 
Weird Stories. 

By F. \V. ROBINSON. 
Women are Strange. 
The Hands of Justice. 

By W. CLARIS RUSSELL. 
An Ocean Tragedy. 
My Shipmate Louise. 
Alone on a Wide Wide Sea. 

By JOHN MAUNDERS. 
Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
Bound to the Wheel. 
The Lion in the Path. 
By KATHARINE SAUNDERS* 
Margaret and Elizabeth. 
Gideon's Rock. I Heart Salvager 
The High Mills. Sebastian. 



CHATTO & WINDUS, 2l4, PICCADILLY. 



THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 

By LUKE SHARP. 
In a Steamer Chair. 

By HAWLEY SMART. 

Without Love or Licence. 

By R. A. STERNDALE. 

The Afghan Knife. 

By BERTHA THOMAS. 

Proud Maisie. | The Violin-player. 

By FRANCES E. TROLLOPJE. 

Like Ships upon the Sea. 
Anne Furness. | Mabel's Progress. 
By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c. 

Stories from Foreign Novelists. 



THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 

By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark. 
Marion Fay. Land-Leaguers. 

Tha Way We Live Now. 
Mr. Scarborough's Family. 

By C. C. FRASER-TYTLER. 
Mistress Judith. 

By SARAH TYTLER. 
The Bride's Pass. I Lady Bell. 
Noblesse Oblige. | Buried Diamonds. 
The Blackball Ghosts. 

By MARK. TWAIN. 
The American Claimant. 

By J. S. WINTER. 
A Soldier's Children. 



CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS. 

Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 



By ARTEMUS WARI>. 

Artemus Ward Complete. 

By EDMOND ABOUT. 

The Fellah. 

By HAMILTON AIDE. 

Carr of Carrlyon. | Confidences. 
By MARY ALBERT. 

Brooke Finchley's Daughter. 

By Mrs. ALEXANDER. 
Maid, Wife.or Widow? | Valerie's Fate. 

By GRANT ALLEN. 
Strange Stories. I The Devil's Die. 
Philistia. This Mortal Coil. 

Babylon. I In all Shades. 

The Beckoning Hand. 
For Maimie's Sake. | Tents of Shem. 
The Great Taboo. 

By ALAN ST.AUBYN. 
A Fellow of Trinity. 
By Rcr. S. BARING GOULD. 
Red Spider. | Eve. 

By FRANK. BARRETT. 
Fettered for Life. 
Between Life and Death. 
The Sin of Olga Zassoulich. 
Folly Morrison. {Honest Davie. 
Lieut. Barnabas. A Prodigal's Progress. 
Found Guilty. I A Recoiling Vengeance. 
For Lovttf.nd Honour. 
John Ford ; and His Helpmate. 
By W. BESANT & .1. RICE. 



The Shadow of the 
Sword. 
A Child of Nature. 
God and the Man. 
Love Me for Ever. 
Foxglove Manor. 
The Master of the 


The Martyrdom of 
Madeline. 
Annan Water. 
The New Abelard. 
Matt. 
The Heir of Linne. 
Mine. 



This Son of Vulcan. 
My Little Girl. 
CaseofMr.Lucraft. 



By Celia's Arbour. 
Monks of Thelema. 
The Seamy Side. 

Vnono'l 



Golden Butterfly. Ten Years' Tenant. 
Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
With Harp and Crown. 
'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
The Chaplain of the Fleet. 

By WALTER BESANT. 
Dorothy Forster. I Uncle Jack. 
Children of Gibeon. | Herr Paulus. 
All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
The Captains' Room. 
All in a Garden Fair. 
The World Went Very Well Then. 
For Faith and Freedom. 
To Call Her Mine. 
The Bell of St. Paul's. 
The Holy Rose. 



By SIIELSLE Y BEAUCHAMP. 

Grantley Grange. 

By FREDERICK BOYLE. 

Camp Notes. | Savage Life. 

Chronicles of No-man's Land. 

By BRET HARTE. 

Flip. I Californian Stories. 

Maruja. | Gabriel Conroy. 

An Heiress of Red Dog. 
The Luck of Roaring Camp. 
A Phyllis of the Sierras. 

By HAROLD BRYDGES. 

Uncle Sam at Home. 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



By HALL CAINJE. 

The Shadow of a Crime. 

A Son of Hagar. ) The Deemster. 

By Commander CAMERON. 

The Cruise of the "Black Prince." 
By Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON. 
Deceivers Ever. [ Juliet's Guardian. 

By AUSTIN CLARE. 
For the Love of a Lass. 

By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE. 
Paul Ferroll. 
Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 

By MACLAREN COBBAN. 
The Cure of Souls. 

By C. ALLSTON COLLINS. 
The Bar Sinister. 

MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
Sweet Anne Page. | Transmigration. 
From Midnight to Midnight. 
A Fight with Fortune. 
Sweet and Twenty. I Village Comedy. 
Frances. | You Play me False, 

Blacksmith and Scholar. 



BOOKS 



BY 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
By WILK1E COLLINS. 

Armadale. j My Miscellanies. 

After Dark. Woman in White. 

No Name. The Moonstone. 

Antonina. | Basil. ! Man and Wife. 
Hide and Seek. Poor Miss Finch. 
The Dead Secret. The Fallen Leaves. 
Queen of Hearts. Jezebel's Daughter 
Miss or Mrs ? The Black Robe. 

New Magdalen. Heart and Science. 
The Frozen Deep. "I Say No.' 



Law and the Lady. 



The Evil Genius. 



The Two Destinies. I Little Novels. 
Haunted Hotel. I Legacy of Cain. 
A Rogue's Life. ! Blind Love. 

By HI. J. COLOUHOUN. 
Every Inch a Soldier. 

By BUTTON COOK. 
Leo. | Paul Foster's Daughter. 

By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. 

By JB. Jl. CROKER. 
Pretty Miss Neville. 
A Bird of Passage. 
Diana Harrington. 
Proper Pride. 

By WILLIAM CYPLES. 
Hearts of Gold. 

By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. 

By JAMES DE MILLE. 
A Castle in Spain. 

By JT. LEITH DERWENT. 
Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 

By CHARLES DICKENS. 
Sketches by Boz. I Oliver Twist. 
Pickwick Papers. | Nicholas Nickleby. 

By I>SK DONOVAN. 
The Man-Hunter. | Caught at Last! 
Tracked and Taken. 
Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan? 
The Man from Manchester. 
A Detective's Triumphs. 
In the Grip of the Law. 
By -Urs. ANNIE ED WARDEN. 
A Point of Honour, j Archie Lovell. 
By M. BETHAM-ED WARDS. 
Felicia. | Kitty. 

By EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
Roxy. 

By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
Bella Donna. I Polly. 

Never Forgotten. | Fatal Zero. 
The Second Mrs. Tillotson. 
Seventy-five Brooke Street. 
The Lady of Brantome. 
By PERCY FITZGERALD 

ami others. 
Strange Secrets. 

ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE. 
Filthy Lucre. 

By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
Olympia. I Queen Cophetua. 

One by One. King or Knave? 

A Real Queen. | Romances of Law. 
By HAROLD FREDERICK. 
Seth's Brother's Wife. 
The Lawton Girl. 

Pref.br Sir BAR TUB FRERE. 
JPandurang Hari. 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 

By IIAIN FRISWELL. 
One of Two. 

By EDWARD GARRETT. 
The Capel Girls. 

By CHARLES GIBBON. 



In Honour Bound. 
Flower of Forest. 
Braes of Yarrow. 
The Golden Shaft. 
Of High Degree. 
Mead and Stream. 
Loving a Dream. 
A Hard Knot. 
Heart's Delight. 
Blood-Money. 



Robin Gray. 
Fancy Free. 
For Lack of Gold. 
What will the 

World Say? 
In Love and War. 
For the King. 
In Pastures Green. 
Queen of Meadow. 
A Heart's Problem. 
The Dead Heart. 

By WILLIAM GILBERT. 
Dr. Austin's Guests. I James Duke. 
The Wizard of the Mountain. 

By ERNEST GLANVILLE. 
The Lost Heiress. 

By HENRY GREVILLE. 
A Noble Woman. | Nikanor. 

By JO BIN II A IS BE R TON. 
Brueton's Bayou. | Country Luck. 

By ANDREW HALLIDAY. 
Every-Day Papers. 

By Latly DUFFUS HARDY. 
Paul Wynter's Sacrifice. 

By THOMAS HARDY. 
Under the Greenwood Tree. 
By J. BERWICK HARWOOD. 
The Tenth Earl. 

By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
Garth. Sebastian Strome. 

Ellice Quentin. Dust. 
Fortune's Fool. Beatrix Randolph. 
Miss Cadogna. Love or a Name. 

David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
The Spectre of the Camera. 

By Sir ARTHUR HELPS. 
Ivan de Biron. 

By HENRY HERMAN. 
A Leading Lady. 

By Mrs. CASHEL HOEY. 
The Lover's Creed. 
By Mrs. GEORGE HOOPER. 
The House of Raby. 

By TIGHE HOPKINS. 
'Twixt Love and Duty. 

By Mrs. HUNGERFORD. 
A Maiden all Forlorn. 
In Durance Yile. I A Mental Struggle. 
Marvel. I A Modern Circe. 

By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
Thornicroft's Model. I Self Condemned. 
That Other Person. I Leaden Casket. 

By JEAN INGELOW. 
Fated to be Free. 

By HARRIETT JTAY 
The Dark Colleen. 
The Queen of Connaught. 

By MARK KK 12 SHAW. 
Colonial Facts and Fictions. 

By R. ASHE KING. 
A Drawn Game. | Passion's Slave. 
" The Wearing of the Green." 
Bell Barry. 



CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 

By JOHN LEYS. 
The Lindsays. 

By E. LYNN LINTON. 
Patricia Kemball. Paston Carew. 
World Well Lost. "My Love!" 
Under which Lord? lone. 
The Atonement of Leam Dundas. 
With a Silken Thread. 
The Rebel of the Family. 
Sowing the Wind. 

By HENR>: W. LUCY. 
Gideon Fleyce. 

By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 

A Fair Saxon. I Donna Quixote. 

Linley Rochford. Maid of Athens. 

Miss Misanthrope. | Camiola. 

Dear Lady Disdain. 

The Waterdate Neighbours. 

My Enemy's Daughter. 

The Comet of a Season. 

By AGNES MACDONELL. 

Quaker Cousins. 

KATHARINE S. MACCfcUOID. 

The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose. 

By W. H. MALLOCK. 

The New Republic. 
By FLORENCE MARRYAT. 

Open! Sesame! | Fighting the Air. 
A Harvest of Wild Oats. 
Written in Fire. 

By J. MASTERMAN. 
Haifa-dozen Daughters. 
By BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
A Secret of the Sea. 

By LEONARD MERR1CK. 
The Man who was Good. 

By JEAN MIDDLE MASS. 
Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorillion. 

By Mrs. MOLES WORTH. 
Hathercourt Rectory. 

By J. E. MUDDOCIt. 
Stories Weird and Wonderful. 
The Dead Man's Secret. 
By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
A Model Father. Old Blazer's Hero. 
Joseph's Coat. Hearts. 

Coals of Fire. Way of the World. 

Val Strange. Cynic Fortune. 

A Life's Atonement. 
By the Gate of the Sea. 
A Bit of Human Nature. 
First Person Singular. 

Ky MURRAY and HERMAN. 
One Traveller Returns. 
Paul Jones's Alias. 
The Bishops' Bible. 

By HENRY MURRAY. 
A Game of Bluff. 

By ALICE O'HANLON. 
The UnfQreseen, 1 Chance? or Fatt? 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 

By GEORGES OHNET. 
Doctor Rameau. I A Last Love. 
A Weird Gift. 

By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
Whiteladies. | The Primrose Path 
The Greatest Heiress in England. 
By Mrs. ROBERT O'REILLY. 
Phoebe's Fortunes. 

By OUIDA. 



Held in Bondage. 

Strathmore. 

Chandos. 

Under Two Flags. 

Idalia. 

CecilCastlemaine's 

Gage. 
Tricotrin. 
Puck. 

Folle Farine. 
A Dog of Flanders. 
Pascarel. 
Signa. 
Princess Naprax- 

ine. 

In a, Winter City. 
Ariadne. 



Two Little Wooden 
Shoes. 

Friendship. 

Moths. 

Pipistrello. 

A Village Com- 
mune. 

Bimbi. 

Wanda. 

Frescoes. 

In Maremma. 

Othmar. 

Guilderoy. 

Ruffino. 

Syrlin. 

Ouida's Wisdom, 
Wit, and Pathos. 



MARGARET AGNES PAUL. 

Gentle and Simple. 

By JAMES PAYN. 



200 Reward. 
Marine Residence. 
Mirk Abbey. 
By Proxy. 
Under One Roof. 
High Spirits. 
Carlyon's Year. 
From Exile. 
For Cash Only. 
Kit. 

The Canon's Ward . 
Talk of the Town. 
Holiday Tasks. 



Bentinck's Tutor. 

Murphy's Master. 

A County Family. 

At Her Mercy. 

Cecil's Tryst. 

ClyffardsofClyffe. 

Foster Brothers. 

Found Dead. 

Best of Husbands. 

Walter's Word. 

Halves. 

Fallen Fortunes. 

Humorous Stories. 

Lost Sir Massingberd. 

A Perfect Treasure. 

A Woman's Vengeance. 

The Family Scapegrace* 

What He Cost Her. 

Gwendoline's Harvest. 

Like Father, Like Son. 

Married Beneath Him. 

Not Wooed, but Won. 

Less Black than We're Painted. 

A Confidential Agent. 

Some Private Views. 

A Grape from a Thorn. 

Glow-worm Tales. 

The Mystery of Mirbridge. 

The Burnt Million. 

The Word and the Will. 

A Prince of the Blood. 

By C. L. PIRK1S. 
Lady Lovelace. 

By EDGAR A. POUS. 
The Mystery of Marie Roat. 

By E. c. PRICK:. 
Yalentina. I The Foreigners, 

Mrs. Lancaster's Rival, 
Gerald, 



BOOKS PUBLISHED BY CHATTO & WINDUS. 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
By CHARLES KEADE. 

It is Never Too Late to Mend. 

Christie Johnstone. 

Put Yourself in His Place. 

The Double Marriage. 

Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 

The Cloister and the Hearth. 

The Course of True Love. 

Autobiography of a Thief. 

A Terrible Temptation. 

The Wandering Heir. 

Singleheart and Doubleface. 

Good Stories of Men and other Animals. 

Hard Cash. I A Simpleton. 

Peg Woffington. | Readiana. 

Griffith Gaunt. A Woman-Hater. 

Foul Play. | The Jilt. 

A Perilous Secret. 

y Mrs. j. if. RIDELL. 

Weird Stories. | Fairy Water. 
Her Mother's Darling. 
Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
Tha Uninhabited House. 
The Mystery in Palace Gardens. 
The Nun's Curse. | Idle Tales. 
By F. W. ROI5INSON. 
Women are Strange. 
The Hands of Justice. 

By .JAMES B1UNCIMAN. 
Skippers and Shellbacks. 
Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart. 
Schools and Scholars. 

By W. CLARK KUSSEI.L. 
Round the Galley Fire. 
On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
In the Middle Watch. 
A Voyage to the Cape. 
A Book for the Hammock. 
The Mystery of the "Ocean Star.'* 
The Romance of Jenny Harlowe. 
An Ocean Tragedy. 
My Shipmate Louise. 
GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
Gaslight and Daylight. 

By JOHN SAUNDERS. 
Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
The Lion in the Path. 
By KATHARINE StUNDERS. 
Joan Merryweather. I Heart Salvage. 
The High Mills. | Sebastian. 
Margaret and Elizabeth. 

By GEOf*GK R. SIMS. 
Rogues and Vagabonds. 
The Ring o' Bells. 
Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
Mary Jane Married. 
Tales of To-day. | Dramas of Life. 
Tinkletop's Crime. 
Zeph: A Circus Story. 

By ARTHUR SKETCIILEY. 
A Match in the Dark. 

By HAWLKY SMART. 
Without Love or Licence. 

By T. "W. SPEIGHT. 
The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 
The Golden Hoop. I By Devious Ways. 
, &ef | Back to Life. 



TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 

By R. A. STERNDALE. 
The Afghan Knife. 

By R. LOUIS STEVENSON. 
New Arabian Nights. | Prince Otto. 
BY BERTHA THOMAS. 
Cressida. | Proud Maisie. 

The Violin-player. 

By WALTER THORNBUKY. 
Tales for the Marines. 
Old Stories Re-told. 

T. AR-OLPHUS TROLLOPE. 

Diamond Cut Diamond. 

By F. ELEANOR TROLLOPE. 

Like Ships upon the Sea. 

Anne Furness. j Mabel's Progress. 

By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 

Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark. 

Marion Fay. | John Caldigatc. 

The Way We Live Now. 

The American Senator. 

Mr. Scarborough's Family. 

The Land-Leaguers. 

The Golden Lion of Granpere. 

By JT. T. TROWRR1DGE. 
FarnelPs Folly. 

By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c. 
Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
By MARK TWAIN. 
A Pleasure Trip on the Continent. 
The Gilded Age. 
Mark Twain's Sketches. 
Tom Sawyer. | A Tramp Abroad. 
The Stolen White Elephant. 
Huckleberry Finn. 
Life on the Mississippi. 
The Prince and the Pauper. 

By C. C. FRASEIt-TYTLER. 
Mistress Judith. 

By SARAH TYTLER. 
The Bride's Pass. I Noblesse Oblige. 
Buried Diamonds. | Disappeared. 
Saint Mungo'sCity. I Huguenot FamiFy. 
Lady Bell. | Blackball Gho&ta. 

What She Came Through. 
Beauty and the Boast. 
Citoyenne Jaqueline. 
By Mrs. F. SI. W1,L,IATISON. 
A Child Widow. 

By J. S. WINTER. 
Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends 

By II. F. WOOD. 
The Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
The Englishman of the Rue Cain. 

By Lady WOOD. 
Sabina. 

EL1A PARKER WOOLLFY. 
Rachel Armstrong; or, Love & Theology, 

By EDMUND YATE. 
The Forlorn Hope, j Land at Last, 
Castaway. 



AK0 69, 



rRJTBR9, QRIAT 8AKBQK 



IS T.TJE "'* ~tr 






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